


Namaste

by missazrael



Series: Namaste AU [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hipsters, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Yoga, Art, Drawing, Fluff, Gen, Happy, Hipsters, M/M, Marcobert brotp too, Modern Era, Multi, No Angst, Reijean BROtp, Reiner and Jean do not have sex in this au, Sexual Content, Yoga, at least not until I get Jean into a successful relationship with Marco, but not for a really long time, but that one's harder to see since Marco never narrates, haha PSYCH there's angst, just trust me it's there, lots of cute first, no, or do they, the only thing tragic about this au is how tragically hipster Jean is, they don't, yoga teacher
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-04-23 16:07:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 123,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4883191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missazrael/pseuds/missazrael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean has it all: the great job, the nice apartment, the beautiful car, a regular, rotating cast of women and men in and out of his bed.  He's living the dream, doing exactly what he always said he'd do with his life... so why is he so unhappy?</p><p>Enter his best friend Hitch, who convinces him to come to a yoga class with her, promising lots of hot ladies for Jean to ogle at (and one that she's got her own eye on).  What Jean never expected was to fall in with a group of yoga wonks, slowly becoming a part of their lives, and discovering that maybe there's more to life than what everyone else says he should want.  He also never expected the class to be led by a dark-eyed, beautifully freckled young man, who gives out the most infuriating mixed signals imaginable.  Is he interested?  Is he not?  Does he even care about sex at all?  </p><p>Whatever it is, Jean is determined to find out, because he's fallen, and fallen hard, for his yoga teacher, and somehow managed to pick up a gaggle of friends in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“This is stupid, Hitch.”

She rolls her eyes at me, tossing her head and sending her stubby little ponytail bouncing. “Come on, what were you going to do tonight instead? Stay home and brood over a French press while complaining online about Netflix?”

“ _No_.” Damn her, she knows me too well. “Maybe I had a date tonight, did you ever think of that?”

She laughs, the sound just starting to border on cruelty before descending back into affection. “No, you didn’t. If you’d had a date, I would have heard about it the minute after you made it, and you would’ve been lording it over me ever since.”

Damn her _again_.

Hitch slows down, letting me catch up to her, and threads her arm through mine. I let her take it, knowing only too well that if I pulled away, she’d take it again immediately and start complaining (loudly) about what a jerk I am for not escorting her properly. When she starts talking again, her voice is soft, almost sweet, and she leans in so only I can hear her. “Look, you’ve been under a lot of stress lately, okay? I’m _worried_ about your dumb ass, your mom is worried about your dumb ass, even _my_ mom is worried about your dumb ass, and that many moms riding my ass about your ass is two moms too many. You’re going to have a heart attack before you’re thirty at this rate.”

“Forty.” I mutter it, almost to myself. “It’s forty, not thirty.”

“Forty, whatever.” Another eye roll. Even when she’s being caring, Hitch is still caustic. Human sentiment with a dollop of acid on the side. “Point is, you need to chill, and as your self-appointed chill coach, this is the first step.”

“Yeah, Hitch, but _yoga_? Isn’t that just pretentious stretching?”

I expect more of a reaction from her over that dig—and really, an argument would be preferable to this weird, caring side of her that I see so rarely—but Hitch just laughs at me, the sound high and tickling, like bells in the wind. “We’ll see if you feel that way when you’re done, sassypants.”

And she promptly drags me the rest of the way to the studio.

I won’t deny, Hitch looks awfully cute in her tight pants and little tank top, and if nothing else, maybe there’ll be some other cute girls around today. I console myself with this thought as I lay down my mat—old, second-hand, borrowed from Hitch—in the back of the room and then sit on it, my legs crossed and my hands resting on my knees. Hitch sets up her mat next to mine and starts bending herself in all sorts of weird ways, doing what I presume is a warm-up; I watch her for awhile, enjoying the way she contorts herself, but lose interest after awhile and start watching the other people who come trickling in.

It’s mostly women, all looking impossibly cute and fit in their outfits, clutching brightly colored mats and chatting quietly with each other as they get set up around the room. I notice that the front row, in the direction we’re all facing, isn’t filling up at all, and I smirk a little, figuring that only nerds want to be right up front near the teacher.

“That’s where the instructor’s helpers go.”

“Huh?” I glance over, and Hitch is in some weird upside down posture, her torso bowed up and her hands and feet on the floor. I wonder when she learned how to do that, and why I’m only finding out about it now.

“The instructor’s helpers.” Hitch unfolds herself, sitting up in one fluid motion. “You know, people you can look at if you can’t see what the teacher is doing.” She gives me a quick side-eye. “Don’t try and do everything they do, you’ll kill yourself.”

“Hitch, it’s just stretching!”

“Uh huh.” She starts contorting herself again, dismissing me entirely. “Like I said… do the modified postures.”

I’m about to snap at her, to inform her that Jean Michael Kirschtein does _not_ take the easy way out, when the door opens and a trio of Norse deities walk in. I close my mouth and watch them, awed in that way you get when in the presence of the insanely fit and beautiful. The big blonde guy looks like he could be Chris Hemsworth’s body double for the Thor movies if he grew out his stubbly haircut, and strides right to the front of the room with a smooth, easy confidence that comes from being exactly in your element. On his way through the room, he stops and greets most of the woman already here by name, grinning down at them and asking quick questions, about their kids, their work, what they’ve been doing since they saw each other last. He’s a natural politician, and I’m surprised when he spreads his mat down in a row like all the rest of us. I thought for sure he was the teacher, but no, he arranges his mat to one side, leaving space for the other two to make a line.

His friend, tall and dark-haired with burnished copper skin, spreads out his mat on the other end of the front row. He keeps his head down and doesn’t say anything, letting the blond guy do the talking, and while he’s not as buff and beefy as his friend, his long, graceful legs go on forever, and his arms show lean, tight muscle definition when they shift. 

The third god is the smallest, and she looks like she could be the blond guy’s sister. She lays her mat in the middle, completely ignoring everything going on around her, and falls into a complicated, spine-rending warm-up. She reminds me of a coiled spring, all power and potential energy ready to explode, and she has the body of a goddess.

Hitch reaches over and pushes on my chin, forcing my mouth closed. “I know, right?” she says, her voice dreamy, and I tear my gaze away from the god squad to look at her with narrowed eyes. So that’s what this is, huh… “Which one?”

She doesn’t even bother to deny it, watching the trio with unabashed delight. “Why? You calling dibs on one of the other ones?”

“Not my type.” Exceptional athletic people are weird.

“Good, because two of them are taken.”

I’m about to ask which one she has her eye on, feeling a little miffed that she dragged me to this class under the false pretense of my health when she really just wanted a wingman while she chased some hottie yoga ass, when the room goes quiet. I look up, and a dark-haired guy is taking a position in the front, turning his mat perpendicular to ours and settling down on it. Everyone else stops bending and stretching and sits at the top of their mats, facing the guy and watching him in respectful silence.

“God, Hitch, is this a yoga class or a cult meeting you dragged me to?”

“Shut up!”

The teacher looks out at us, and I find myself unconsciously straightening my back, trying to imitate his posture and not slouch. The guy is sitting so straight it almost looks painful, if not for the calm look in his eyes and the relaxed set of his shoulders. And those are some damn fine shoulders, too, attached to a collarbone that looks like it’s trying to jut out from under his tan skin.

I’m suddenly feeling very flabby and out of place.

“Good afternoon,” the teacher says, and even his voice is soothing, warm and gentle and soft but still carrying to every corner of the room. The class murmurs a greeting in response, and he smiles, making the corners of his eyes crinkle a little at the edges. He has a smattering of freckles over his nose and cheeks, almost blending in with his skin tone, and I close my mouth before Hitch can embarrass me by reaching over and closing it for me. “I see we have some new faces in the class,” and he looks directly at me and smiles, making me feel very on the spot but in the best way possible. “Welcome. My name is Marco, and I’ll do my best to make sure you understand everything that goes on.” He studies me a moment longer, and then he looks back out at the rest of the class, and I feel a fleeting sense of disappointment that I’m no longer the center of attention. “For all my returning yogis and yoginis, if you forget anything in the series, or need help with a pose, you can always look to or ask Reiner, Annie, or Bertolt.” He gestures to the three deities in the front row.

“And now we’ll begin with some breathing exercises.”

Breathing. Okay, breathing I can do. I close my eyes when Marco tells us to, and try to follow his instructions. It turns out there’s a lot more to breathing than I’d thought, at least to listen to him, and it’s not long before the class sounds like a bunch of laboring old people trying to climb a hill. It’s funny, and I open my eyes a crack to look at Hitch, wanting to crack a joke, but she’s got her eyes closed and is doing the old person breathing along with everyone else. I look to the front of the room, and Marco has his eyes open, and he’s looking right at me. When he catches my eyes, he smiles a little, making a gesture downward with his chin, and I close my eyes and try to focus again, abashed.

After breathing loudly and complicatedly for awhile, Marco tells us to open our eyes and come to standing at the top of our mats. I sneak peeks at the other students out of the corners of my eyes, but it seems like what he said is what everyone is actually doing, and I stand confidently at the top of my mat, with my feet and ankles touching each other. I have this yoga stuff _down_.

Three minutes later, it becomes glaringly apparent that I _don’t_ have this yoga stuff down.

How is anyone supposed to put their heels on the floor when they’ve got their ass in the air like this? Why is this called downward dog, and how on earth is it supposed to be a resting pose? This is the exact opposite of restful, this is agony, why would anyone _do_ this? I take care of myself, I’m in decent shape, I run a couple times a week and lift weights once a month or whatever, _why is this pretentious stretching so hard_?

Hitch stifles a giggle next to me, and I glare over at her, furious that she dragged me to this torture. “Couldn’t you chase ass on your own and leave me out of it?” I hiss, feeling sweat already starting to run down my face, and she just shrugs and smirks from her mat, her heels touching the floor and her ass high in the air. I hate this. I hate her. I hate everything. I am a seething ball of hatred, ready to stand up and walk right the fuck out of this torture studio.

“Is it okay if I touch you to adjust your form?”

I glance up, and it’s Marco, crouching down next to me so we’re almost at eye level. Confused at seeing him here, I look back to the front of the room, and the Norse god has taken Marco’s spot on the mat in front, his head ducked low and his heels pressing firmly into the floor. I turn my head back around, and Marco is still squatting there, smiling a little, looking sweet and inviting and helpful, and I nod stupidly.

He nods back, his smile growing, and as he rises to his feet, I realize that his eyes are the warmest chocolate brown I’ve ever seen this side of a Labrador puppy. I don’t have time to ruminate on it, though, because Marco has his hands on my ankles, and he’s telling me to step forward about two steps and bring my feet closer together. I do, baffled, and it’s amazing how much easier the posture suddenly gets. It still hurts, but it doesn’t feel like torment anymore. I look between my legs in surprise, but Marco is already up and moving, coming around to my hands. He lays his hands on my wrists, and I’m expecting him to move them, but all he does is put a little pressure on the insides on my hands, near my thumbs.

“I want you to pretend you have a sixth finger, growing from between your first finger and your thumb, okay? And that’s the finger I want you to push into the mat.”

The rest of the practice goes exactly like that, with Marco stepping off his mat to help me every few postures, and while a part of me relishes the attention, I also feel like an idiot who needs to be babied and have everything done for me. It’s just _stretching_ , for God’s sake, why am I having such a hard time with it? By the time it’s over, I’m drenched in sweat and feeling completely wrung out, and the last posture, something called corpse pose, is the most blessed relief I’ve ever felt. I almost don’t want to sit up after we’ve lain there like dead bodies for a few minutes, and when the class formally ends (with Marco bringing his hands in front of his face and wishing us all “Namaste,” whatever that means), I try to gather my stuff in a hurry to slink out, away from my humiliation. 

Hitch, of course, has to dawdle, and I’m lingering at the door while she talks with the various soccer moms when I feel a huge, heavy paw clap down on my shoulder.

“You did really good today!” It’s the blond Thor guy, grinning at me through a mouthful of perfect white teeth.

“Not really,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “I was a disaster.”

His grin softens a little, and he pats me on the back. “First time doing yoga?”

“Wasn’t it obvious?” Are all yoga people so touchy-feely? What the hell is this? I try to subtly shrug his hand off my shoulder.

“It takes a bold person to try Ashtanga for their first attempt. You kept up pretty good.” He laughs suddenly, loud and booming, and I cringe as everyone in the room turns to look at us. “You should’ve seen me my first time! I couldn’t walk for a week afterwards!”

I raise an eyebrow at him, doubtful. “You’re bullshitting me.”

“Honest truth.” He drops his hand, only to hold it out in front of him. “Name’s Reiner.”

I shake his hand, mine getting swallowed in his broad catcher’s mitt. Lucky for my finger bones, he’s not the kind of guy to take every handshake as a challenge and try to crush the other guy’s fingers. “I’m Jean.”

“Nice to meet you, John,” he responds, butchering the pronunciation of my name, just like I figured he would. “Are you going to come join us again?”

I open my mouth, and I’m not sure what’s going to come out. Hell, no? Absolutely not? We’ll see if my schedule allows it, meaning no? I don’t get a chance, though, because Hitch is suddenly at my elbow, nodding and beaming up at Reiner. “He sure is! He had a great time today, didn’t you, _Jean_?”

I could still refuse, but I can feel Hitch’s bony elbow, floating somewhere close to my ribs and ready to strike, and it’s not worth the argument that would ensue and the bruised ribs to disagree. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am.”

Reiner studies the two of us for a moment, then nods. “Good. It gets easier, Jean, I promise. The first few times are pretty brutal, but you’ll be amazed how fast you’ll improve.” He flashes a quick smile at us and then goes on his way, and I realize he’d corrected the way he said my name the second time. He must have been listening to Hitch when she said it.

As soon as he’s gone, Hitch takes a step away from me, wrinkling her nose. “You smell _awful_.”

“Thanks. So do you.”

“I do not!”

“You do.”

“Do not!”

“Hitch… yes. You do.”

We fall into comfortable banter, arguing back and forth, as we leave the studio, and although I look over my shoulder, Marco the beautiful instructor is already gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean gets to know the rest of the yoga class.

The sound of my phone ringing wakes me up the next morning. I try to emerge from my blanket burrito, but even the simple movement of reaching for my phone sends pain slamming up my arm. I groan from inside my blankety prison, and consider just curling up and ignoring the phone until it goes away. But there are only two people dumb or bold enough to call me first thing in the morning, and I know neither one will leave me alone until I answer.

It’s a battle, but I eventually get enough mobility going to reach out and slap blindly towards where I dropped my phone last night. “… ‘lo?”

“Good morning, Jeanbo!” Hitch, bright and cheerful and trilling obnoxiously into the phone. “How’re you feeling?”

I sigh and roll over on my back, making muscles I didn’t even know I had howl with agony. “I hate you.”

“That good, huh?”

“They say that pain builds character. I’m pretty sure they’re lying.”

“You’re not building character, you already have plenty of that. Too much, even.”

“Thanks, Hitch. You’re a real pal. I owe my current predicament all to you.”

She laughs at that, but sounds more sympathetic when she answers. “I have some Tiger balm you can have, it helps with the aches. _And_ if you can get out of bed and get downtown, I’ll buy you brunch.”

The thought of just laying in bed and wallowing in my misery is pretty appealing, but so is the thought of brunch, especially if Hitch is going to pay for it. “Open bar brunch?”

“All the mimosas you can handle, Mimsy, and afterwards you can take Kendall and Madison to soccer practice.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I sit up, wincing as the long muscles in my thighs scream at me in indignation. Apparently those runs aren’t doing shit for me, or maybe hurting this bad after yoga is just to be expected and all those yoga people are secretly masochists. “Meet you there in…” Thirty minutes? No, it’s going to take a long, hot shower to loosen up all these aches and pains. “Forty five?”

“Sure, sounds great!”

“And Hitch?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t forget that tiger balm.”

~*~

Fifty minutes later, I’m showered, dressed, and walking, albeit stiffly, into Hitch’s favorite brunch place. The hostess recognizes me and bats her eyes, giving me that flirty little smile like she always does, and directs me to a table in the back. I ponder, as I’m making my way through the crowded dining room—and grabbing a mimosa off the tray of a wandering waiter—what exactly the hostess thinks of Hitch and I, and if it would be gauche to make a play at her on my way out. It probably would be; she’s probably just being nice because it’s her job.

I spot Hitch’s shaggy hair bobbing up and down as she talks, gesturing dramatically, and lo and behold, she’s found us some brunch company. It’s the Deity Trio from yoga class, looking polished and preppy and even more beautiful than yesterday, although the girl is staring off into the distance with that glazed look in her eyes that only teenagers can usually cultivate. I straighten my scarf, force myself to not glance around the room in hopes that Marco has joined us, and slide into a chair next to the tall, dark-haired guy. “Hello.”

“Jean!” Hitch is in her element, lively and enthusiastic and bubbling over with energy. She’s also at least partially tipsy, if the empty mimosa glasses scattered around her are any indication. She leans across the table and grips my free hand, her eyes sparkling. “You made it!”

“I said I would.” I glance around the table; I’m sitting in the only chair that had been free. Damn. I turn my attention to the Deity Trio. “Hi again.”

“Jean!” Is Reiner capable of speaking in a voice that isn’t loud and booming? I’m beginning to wonder. He leans around the back of Tall, Dark, and Silent, and claps me on the back, making me wince as my sore muscle protest. I really could’ve used another ten minutes or so in the shower. “Glad you made it! So I’m Reiner, we met yesterday, and this is Bertolt,” he touches the guy sitting beside me on the back, and Bertolt glances over for a split second before immediately looking away, muttering a soft, hesitant greeting, “and this is Annie.” He gestures across the table at the girl that looks like a smaller version of himself, who nods at me coolly before sipping her own mimosa. “And that’s Hitch, and you’re _Jean_ , like Jean Valjean, and now we’re all introduced.” He sits back, crossing his arms over his massive chest, clearly pleased with himself.

“Nice to meet you,” I tell Bertolt and Annie, and Bertolt glances at me again, the corners of his mouth turning up ever so faintly, while Annie regards me over the rim of her champagne flute. “I wasn’t aware you and Hitch were all friends.”

“This is the first time!” Hitch says brightly. “I stalked them on Facebook and invited them here.”

“Or rather, she stalked me and I brought everyone else.” Reiner and Hitch grin at each other from across the table, co-conspirators in some kind of plot that the rest of us haven’t been informed of yet. “This is a nice place; do you two come here a lot?”

“Sometimes.” I sip my mimosa. “We came here a lot more when we were dating.”

Reiner leans in, clearly interested in that little reveal, and I’m pretty sure I see Annie’s eyebrow raise before she looks away. “So you two…” He gestures at both of us.

“Not anymore!” Hitch cries, and I’m almost a little offended. We’re not dating anymore, that’s definitely true, but we’re still occasional fuck buddies, and being dismissed so quickly is a little disheartening. Then again, I’m pretty sure she’s on the prowl for someone at this table, and it’s clearly not me. “We used to, but now we’re friends.” She grins across the table at me, almost predatory. “ _Right_ , Jean?”

I take my time swallowing my drink, just to let her sweat a little, before answering. Hitch might be a pain in my ass, but she’s still my best friend, and it’s my solemn duty to be a good wingman to whichever of the Deity Trio she’s trying to bang. “Yeah, we haven't dated in a long time. Practically since high school.”

Or since our third year of university, but whatever. 

Hitch sits back, appeased, but she’s not entirely off the hook yet. “I caught her making with my friend’s sister during a party, and that was pretty much the end of that.”

Hitch reaches across the table and swats at me. I manage to duck out of the way, although it makes my shoulders creak alarmingly, and I’m gratified to see how Annie looks interested now. If it’s her Hitch is trying to bang, now she knows Hitch swings that way. I smirk and feel pleased with myself, and even though she’s still trying to smack me, Hitch looks grateful. That’s right, I’m a damn fine wingman.

Reiner eventually catches one of Hitch’s flailing hands and gets her to calm down. “Hey now, you’re going to knock stuff off the table.”

She sits back, her honor properly defended, and winks at me from over the top of her glass. “Tell them the part about how you immediately propositioned us for a threesome, Jean.”

Reiner roars laughter at that, tilting back in his chair, and Annie shoots me a dirty look. It’s Bertolt, though, who surprises all of us.

“Did it work?” 

I shake my head mournfully, pleased that Tall, Dark and Silent is finally talking. “I have never been shot down so fast or so hard, either before or since.” Ah, beautiful Mikasa, it was not meant to be. I ended up having a fling with her brother later though—a story which I know Hitch won’t tell, being all too familiar with how people can totally dig a bi girl but aren’t always cool with a bi guy—so it wasn’t a total loss.

“I’m not surprised,” Bertolt continues, looking at me from under his dark eyelashes. “Those kind of things never, ah, work out.”

“Wait a minute.” I lean forward onto my elbows, suddenly fascinated, already feeling a pleasant buzz from the alcohol. Must be drinking on an empty stomach, never a good idea. “ _You_ tried for a threesome once?”

Bertolt blushes and looks away, and Annie comes to his rescue, kicking me under the table. “That’s enough.” She speaks with utmost authority, and both of her fellows gods have the decency to look ashamed of themselves. “No more threesome talk over brunch.”

I sneak a look at Hitch, and she’s watching Annie, her eyes starry and glittering. Well, that solves _that_ mystery. I wave down a waiter for another round of mimosas, and wince as I lower my arm back down.

Annie notices. “How’re you feeling today, Jean?”

I grimace, but wave it off; I don’t want to seem like a weak ass who can’t even handle some incredibly intense pretentious stretching. “A little stiff.”

Reiner snorts, the sound good-natured. “Yeah, sure. Let me guess: everything hurt this morning, and it took a twenty minute hot shower to make you feel limber enough to come down here?”

I look at him, surprised, and Hitch bursts out laughing. “I told them already, Jean.”

“Great.” I scowl at her, but since the gig is up, I might as well be honest. “I felt like I was three thousand years old when I woke up this morning, honestly.

“That’s, uh, pretty common.” Bertolt stares at his plate as he talks, toying with a fork with one long-fingered hand. “Reiner and I were wrecks after the first few classes.”

“My hamstrings are still nightmares,” Reiner volunteers cheerfully, flagging down a waiter to take our orders. “It’s cool, though. That’s why they call it yoga practice and not yoga perfect.”

While everyone orders, Annie studies me with her ice blue eyes. As the waiter departs, she addresses me directly, and I notice that everyone else quietens down when she talks. She might be tiny and unimposing at first glance, but she’s clearly the leader of the Deity Trio. “You should keep coming to class.”

“Maybe?” I’m surprised at her forthrightness. “It depends on how quickly I start feeling normal again.”

“Your current _normal_ is stiff and rigid and closed off. If you wait until you’re back to normal, you’ll have to start all over again.” She tucks a lock of blonde hair behind her ear, and I notice that Hitch is practically drooling. “It’ll hurt the first few times, but if you’re still having problems, Marco can help you after class.”

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t tuned out a good part of that little spiel, more amused with Hitch and her blatant ogling than Annie’s assessment of my attributes, but she catches my attention in the end. “What?”

She stares at me, her gaze unblinking and little unnerving, but there’s something familiar in the depths of her gaze, something that tells me we know and understand each other, even if neither of us is willing to admit it. “Marco will help you with your poses, if they’re still hurting.”

“He wants everyone to have a good time and love yoga,” Reiner butts in, looking painfully earnest. “He’ll give you individual attention if it’ll make the difference between you coming back and quitting.”

Yoga poses aren’t exactly the kind of individual attention I’d like from Marco, but the classes are an excuse to see him again. “I’ll think about it,” I say, keeping it cool and noncommittal, and Hitch comes to my rescue.

“Do you think Marco would like to join us for brunch sometime?” Bless her. I take back everything bad I’ve ever said or thought about her.

“I asked him today,” Bertolt volunteers, and I’ll be damned if he’s not smiling with one side of his mouth, watching me with dark green eyes. It’s like he _knows_. “But he’s taking care of his babies?”

“Babies?” What? Oh god no, no children, no wife or ex, no no no, abort mission, abort! “Marco has kids?”

“Worse.” Annie rolls her eyes. “ _Cats_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Marco plays a much more prominent role in the next chapter. Also, Jean and Hitch as terriawesome best friends is hilarious and my new favorite thing to write.
> 
> Updates will be every Monday.


	3. Chapter 3

I’m in my bedroom, examining different band t-shirts splayed out across my bed, when someone starts pounding on my door, sounding like they’re trying to break through it with a battering ram. I ignore it. The only people capable of pounding on a door like that are Hitch and a SWAT team ready to take me into custody for crimes against humanity, and my only crimes this week have been breaking the speed limit and not texting my mom back in a timely enough fashion. Either way, both possible groups are completely capable of getting in without my help, and I keep my attention on my shirts.

“Jeeeeeeeeean!” Unless SWAT teams are going for high-pitched and squealing these days, it’s Hitch. I quietly rue the day I ever gave her a key to get into my place.

“In the bedroom!” I yell, succumbing to the inevitable.

Moments later, Hitch breezes in like she owns the place, and flops onto my bed, sprawling across the shirts I’d been examining and stretching her arms above her head. “I have a daaaaaate!”

“Yeah? That’s great. Get off my shirts.”

No such luck; she starts rolling back and forth, hugging herself and talking fast. “We’re going to get smoothies after yoga and she’s so hot, _god_ , you’ve seen her you know how hot she is, and I’ve been texting her and stalking her on Facebook and she’s really interesting and knows a lot of stuff and I’m gonna get laid!”

I can’t help it; I start laughing. We haven’t been together for a long time, and I’m mature enough to recognize that we were never a good match, so I’m not the least bit offended by all this, despite technically being The Ex. “I’m glad you’re happy, Hitch. Now get off my shirts, I’m making an important decision here.”

She rolls her eyes and huffs at me, blowing a tuft of hair out of her eyes, but obligingly rolls out of the way, landing across my pillows. “You’re not wearing _those_ shorts, are you?”

“Uh, yeah? What’s wrong with them?” I glance down at my legs, and the baggy soccer shorts that cover them. “Are they too short or something?”

“They’re too loose. Every time you bend forward your balls are going to fall out, and you’ll be next to me and I don’t want to see that.” Hitch picks herself up and dives into my closet, narrowly evading me trying to grab her and keep her out of there. “Don’t you have any running tights or anything?”

“My balls are _not_ going to fall out!” Although, now that she mentions it, that does seem like a distinct possibility. While she raids my closet, I try a quick forward bend, my back only creaking a little at the motion. I’m about to pop up, triumphant, and tell her these shorts are fine, when something shifts and… yeah. Yeah, my balls totally fall out, and I stand up fast, brushing down the front of my shorts to hide my shame. “The running tights are in the back.”

She finds a pair and brings them out, thrusting them against my chest. “You’re going to put a shirt on, right?”

“That’s what I was trying to decide when you barged in!”

“Right.” She turns her attention to the shirts, looking at them with a critical eye and waving me towards the bathroom. “Go put your tights on, I’ll pick one out for you.”

When I emerge, wearing the tights and the shorts over them, she raises an eyebrow at me before handing me a shirt. “Afraid of popping a boner in class?”

I snatch the shirt out of her hands. That was a little too close to the truth, and besides, no one wants to see my skinny ass and legs when they could be watching any one of the Deity Trio or Marco up front. “You know, no one actually asked for your help today.”

“It’s your own good fortune that I’m here, Jeanbo.” She’s completely unruffled by my moodiness, too happy about both her date and being right about my shorts.

I grumble to myself, knowing it’s mostly for show, and pull the shirt over my head before looking down at which one she’s chosen. “Uh, the Paper Kites? Really? How sensitive and emo are you trying to make me look here?”

“They seem like a band Marco would enjoy,” she replies inscrutably. “Now hurry up, or all the good spots will be taken.”

~*~

A drive through town later, and we’re spreading out our mats in the same spots as last week. Some of the soccer moms seem to recognize me, and smile and nod; others ignore us completely as they get themselves set up and ready to go. We’re early, and while Hitch watches eagerly for Annie, I try a few of the basic stretches I remember from last week. They don’t hurt anymore, and I’m pretty sure I’m a millimeter or two closer to being able to touch my toes. Accomplishments!

“Hey, that’s good! You’re getting better already!” For a big guy, Reiner can move like a ninja, and I jump when he claps a hand on the small of my back. “Want me to push you a little further down?”

“Uh, no thanks.” It’s not that I don’t trust him, but more like I feel like he could break me with his enthusiasm. The guy’s biceps are the size of my thighs, on a good day, after a five mile run.

Reiner smiles and takes a step back, lifting both his hands up. “No worries. Good to see you here again, bro.” He heads off towards the front of the room, leaving me to snicker to myself. Did he seriously just call me bro? He called me bro, and not ironically either. What _is_ this guy?

I turn to Hitch to snark with her, but she’s talking to Annie, their heads bent close together and their voices low, so no one can listen in. Reiner is already laying down with mat with Bertolt, and for a moment, I feel completely lost, surrounded by a sea of chattering soccer moms, isolated from everyone I know. I don’t know where it comes from, but I feel something spike up through my chest, a loneliness that threatens to overwhelm me, and I swallow hard as the room blurs in front of me.

“Hey, you came back for another session.”

His voice breaks in like a soothing balm, and whatever had been percolating in my throat dies away, ebbing back and hiding once more, and I turn to smile at Marco. “Couldn’t keep me away.”

He smiles at me, and his eyes crinkle at the corners, folding in over some freckles spattered along his temples. “I’m glad you’re here; I was afraid that practice last week might’ve scared you off.”

It almost did. With a different instructor, it probably would have. He can never know that, though, and I shrug nonchalantly. “I liked it.” And, once I stopped being stiff and feeling like an old man, I had. It’s only now, basking in the glow of Marco’s smile, that I can be honest enough with myself to recognize that.

He beams when I tell him that, his teeth flashing white and straight and perfect in his tanned face, and I can’t help noticing how full and plush his lower lip is, and wondering how it would feel between both of mine. “Great!” He holds out a hand, and I stare at it stupidly for a moment before I figure out that he wants to shake; my imagination, opportunistic little bastard that it is, had hoped he’d been reaching out for something a little more interesting than a handshake. “My name’s Marco, which you already know, but what’s yours?”

I take his hand and clasp it firmly, the way my dad taught me, giving him a brisk, businessman shake. “I’m Jean. It’s really nice to… meet you?” Technically, we met last week, but Marco is completely disarming me with his handshake. He’s folded his fingers around mine, almost like we’re hugging but with our hands, and I don’t think I’ve gotten this giddy over someone touching my hand since middle school. I swear, it feels like someone sucked all the air out of the room.

He chuckles a little, quiet and unassuming, and releases me. I draw my hand back, very nearly bringing it up to cradle at my chest but stopping myself before I do. “It’s nice to meet you too, Jean,” and bless him, he gets the accent _perfect_ , pronouncing my name the same way my French grandmother who speaks about ten words of English pronounces it, lilting and elegant and not at all like _John_. “If you need any help after class, let me know, okay? I know some of these poses can be pretty tricky when you’re first learning.”

I nod. “Cool. Thanks.”

He nods back, and steps away, making his way to his position in the front of the room, and as I watch him go, I get the feeling that I’m going to be needing a lot of help after class. Like, so much. All the help.

I catch Hitch watching me, looking all smug and knowing, but when I turn to glare at her, all she does is smile and lift one shoulder in a little half shrug. “I told you yoga was fun.”

I can’t argue with that, and find myself smiling as I settle at the top of my mat, waiting eagerly for the class to begin. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s fun.”

~*~

Oh god, what was I thinking, yoga is NOT fun, fuck this pose, fuck my life, fuck fuck fuck FUCK…

~*~

I’m laying on my back, unmoving, feeling completely wrung out and exhausted. How is it possible that that was _harder_ the second time around? That’s not how things are supposed to work, you’re supposed to be better the second time you try something, not even shittier and more rigid! To top it off, I’m laying in a pool of my own rapidly evaporating sweat, and I’m pretty sure my deodorant gave up the ghost right around the second set of sun salutations.

“Are you okay?”

I groan and wave a hand in Hitch’s general direction. “Go on without me, Hitch. Leave me here to die.”

“You’re not going to die.”

“Yes, I am. We all are. I’m just going to die soon.”

She rolls over onto her stomach, pillowing her head in her arms and smiling at me. “What’s the matter, Jeanbo, yoga a little too difficult for you?”

“Bodies aren’t meant to bend that way, or hold those poses for that long.”

She shakes her head, pulling the elastic out of her hair and letting it fall around her face. “This wasn’t even a hot yoga class, you pansy.”

“There are _hot_ yoga classes?” That sounds like a horror dreamed up by Lovecraft.

Hitch opens her mouth to answer, but she’s interrupted by a voice from above, descending from the heavens and sounding amused. “They’re called Bikram classes. I teach one on Tuesdays.”

I turn my head so fast I nearly give myself whiplash, and Marco is standing over me, knees bent, propping himself up with his hands, dark bangs hanging in front of his face and framing his bright eyes. I swallow and nod, unable to help my runaway imagination and how it immediately reaches the conclusion that this is a really nice look for Marco, and one I wouldn’t mind seeing a lot more often. I might need to see it a little closer, though. For science.

“I don’t think Bikram is your style, though,” Marco continues, and he offers me his hand. I take it and he pulls me into a sitting position. Once I’m upright, he drops into a crouch beside me, so we’re eye to eye, and it’s a great struggle to not glance down and see what he’s packing in those tight yoga pants. “Do you want me to go through some of the postures with you? If you get some of the basics down a little better, the rest of the practice will be easier.”

Do I want extra practice time with Marco? Do bears shit in the woods? I nod eagerly, trying not to grin like a loon. “I’d like that a lot, yeah. If you don’t mind.”

He smiles, and over his shoulder, Hitch gives me a thumbs up as she gathers her stuff. “I don’t mind at all.” He stands, and it’s not my fault, I swear I’m not trying to be a perv, but I get an eyeful of what he’s packing, and god _damn_ , I’m glad I wore the soccer shorts over my running tights today!

Marco turns his head, and even the lines of his throat are beautiful, taut and clean, and I’m struck by a sudden urge to draw him. I’d use charcoal and graphite, something messy and _real_ , and try to capture the lines through his neck and shoulders, try to pin a fraction of his beauty down on paper. It’s a weird feeling; I can’t remember the last time I wanted to draw anything for fun.

“Bertl, would you come help us for a minute, please?”

Bertl? What? No, no Bertl, no Bertolt, I want Marco to myself, dammit, I don’t need someone else here! Bertolt knows all the poses, he’s practically a pro, I don’t want to learn stuff from him! I can feel my brows drawing down in a scowl, and I have to consciously rearrange my face as I get up. Bertolt is a nice guy, and I don’t want him getting caught on the receiving end of a patented Jean Kirschtein hissy fit. I don’t even really have a reason to be throwing a hissy, beyond that I selfishly want Marco all to myself.

Bertolt lopes over, ducking his head so he’s watching me through his long bangs and smiling shyly. It’s impossible to stay mad at this guy, it’d be like kicking a puppy, and I feel my indignation start to fade away. Yoga, okay, I’m going to focus on my yoga and not my dick, being better at yoga might help my dick in the long run.

Marco gestures, and I scramble to my feet. “We’re going to work with Trikonasana, triangle pose, first. Bertl, would you mind?”

Bertolt does not mind, and obediently drops into the posture. I watch with jealousy as his hand sinks easily to the floor, amazed that someone with arms and legs that long can find the position so easily. Marco steps behind him, standing near his hips, and I pay attention, if for no other reason than I really, really hope that when I try, Marco will do the same for me.

“Okay, I noticed that when you do this one, you tend to fold over your front leg.” Marco smiles a little, being reassuring even as he’s explaining what I’ve done wrong. “Look at Bertolt’s torso here… see how it’s in a straight line over his leg?”

I nod, understanding now why Marco picked Bertolt to help him; Bertolt is so long and lean that everything is really easy to see.

“Good, that’s what you want to try and do. And when you’re dropping into the the position—Bertolt, would you please? Thanks— keep your front hip back and reach with your arm. You’re working on stretching out your torso.” Bertolt demonstrates a few times, coming in and out of the pose patiently, as Marco points out what he’s doing and how he’s doing it, and amazingly, I think I start to see what he’s talking about.

“I can’t touch the floor, though.”

“That’s okay.” Bertolt speaks up for the first time, and both Marco and I turn to him, a little surprised. Bertolt flushes at the attention—or maybe it’s because he’s bent over his leg with his face two feet away from the floor—but explains. “It took me a few months to reach my ankle when I started. The first time I did it, I touched here.” He lifts up, his hand ending up near his knee.

“Thank you, Bertolt, that’s absolutely true.” Marco smiles at his friend, then turns to me, not the least bit ruffled or upset about being interrupted. “Do you want to try now, Jean?”

“Yeah.” I spread my legs out, nowhere nearly as gracefully as either Marco or Bertolt had done, and as Bertolt stays in triangle, I awkwardly lower myself down, aiming for my knee instead of the floor. Marco comes around and stands behind me, waiting until I’m done.

“Can I touch you to adjust?”

“Go ahead.” He can touch me for more than adjustments, but I’ll take what I can get for now.

Marco lays one of his hands on my waist, and everything starts tingling immediately, like his touch is electric and sending little shock waves coursing through me. “Roll this back more, towards the ceiling, okay? Can you do that for me?”

I try, doing my best, and when I do, the hand on my knee suddenly shoots downward, sliding down to rest on my shin. I blink in surprise, and Marco laughs. “See? It’s easier when you’ve got the right form.”

“Holy shit,” I agree, amazed at how it doesn’t feel uncomfortable anymore.

Marco nods, and runs his hand up my side. “Keep your back straight, though. Don’t slouch over your leg.”

I straighten my back, and Bertolt smiles at me from across the mat, nodding in encouragement. I notice behind him that Reiner is waiting patiently for him at the door, along with Annie and a murderous-looking Hitch.

“That’s much better, Jean!” Marco enthuses, and lifts his hand off my waist. “Can you show me on the other side? Mirror what Bertolt does?”

We work through a few more postures in much the same way, and by the time we’re done, I’m ready to crawl out of skin, I’m so cranked up. The feel of Marco’s hands on me, the gentle little touches as he corrects my form, as he adjusts my posture, are exquisite torture, and I know I’ll be imagining them when I inevitably jack off later tonight. Marco calls a stop to it when he sees how flushed I’m getting, and I can’t tell him it’s because he’s been touching me and not because the postures are too hard. Bertolt watches our interactions the whole time, a little smile teasing at the corner of his mouth, and I swear I can hear his gaydar pinging. Yes yes, it’s the mating dance of the Late Twenties Hipster, hope he’s enjoying the show.

Marco, sadly, seems completely immune to my (admittedly dubious, at the moment) charms, although he does clasp my arm around one bicep when all three of us stand up. “You’re doing a lot better! It’s always so great to see someone just starting to get into yoga.”

“Yeah. Yoga’s… yoga’s great.” The crazy thing is, I _do_ feel better than I did before, more loose and relaxed and comfortable, and I’m pretty sure that’s not entirely thanks to Marco’s magic hands.

Bertolt has been edging away while we talk, retreating towards Reiner and the door, and Marco and I are interrupted by Reiner. “Hey, guys! We’re going to go get smoothies, want to come?”

I hear Hitch protesting and Annie shushing her, and now realize why she’d been looking so angry. Ah, we’re going to be date crashers. I catch her eye, and she gives me a helpless little shrug, letting me know that the date is already crashed so we might as well come along and maybe _one_ of us will progress further in our quest. I make a mental note to buy Hitch some commiserating ice cream, and turn to Marco, giving him my best, most winning smile. “What’d you think?”

He’s frowning a little, a crease between his eyebrows that I desperately wish I could stretch up and kiss away. “I don’t usually hang out with students after class…”

“We’re not students, we’re your friends!” Reiner booms, his arm linked with Bertolt’s, and Bertolt looks over his shoulder and nods in agreement, and that seems to seal the deal.

“All right.” Marco smiles at them, then looks back at me. “Give me a few minutes to lock up, okay? Meet you in the parking lot.”

“Sure.” I smile back, grinning almost deliriously, and trot towards the door. “See you there!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, there's actually yoga in this chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smoothie not!date with the hottie yoga instructor and the rest of the class.

It turns out that Reiner drives a ridiculous little hatchback, one that he and Bertolt have to fold themselves into like a clown car. I don’t even ask how Annie fits inside it with them, too fascinated by the way Reiner is maneuvering his legs to get inside it. Turns out yoga has practical applications after all.

Once he’s in, Reiner rolls down the window and leans out, his massive bicep dwarfing the car. “Can Annie ride with you, Jean?”

“Yeah, of course.” I hadn’t realized Annie came in with them, but I know having her in the backseat will make Hitch happy. I turn to look at them, and Hitch is already leading Annie towards my car, while Marco stands there alone, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“I live close to the studio, so I walked here,” he says apologetically, and I can’t imagine his eyes looked any more like a sweet puppy’s. “Can I…”

“Yes.” That was a little quick, a little eager, and I swallow, trying to sound cooler, more sedate. “Sure, I’ve got room.”

“Thanks.” He falls in step beside me as we follow Hitch and Annie. 

“It’s no trouble.” A chance to have Marco in my car, to make him maybe like me a little more? No trouble at all. “I can bring you home after too, if you want.” I’m pretty sure Hitch will be trying to go escape with Annie, and while I normally hate playing chauffeur, I’m prepared to make an exception.

“Thanks again, that’d be really nice.” Marco turns up the collar on his lightweight sports jacket. “It’s starting to get colder at night, and I wasn’t looking forward to walking home.”

“Yeah, the weather’s definitely changing.” Smooth, Kirschtein. Everyone likes talking about the weather! Keep it up, and maybe he’ll ask you about Jeopardy last night and that nice young man from Missoula who knew all the answers!

As I’m left pondering whether or not the nice young man from Missoula was the double Jeopardy champion, a potential showing I missed due to yoga class, Marco abruptly stops walking and lets out a long, low whistle. “Is that your car?”

Ah, yes, my car. It’s obviously my car, since it’s the only one still in the parking lot and has both Annie and Hitch standing beside it, waiting impatiently to be let in. My car, long, heavy, low-slung, clearly expensive, gleaming dully under the streetlights. I’d just washed her the day before, and I can’t help smiling a little as I look at her.

“Yeah, that’s Adelaide.” I move to the driver’s side to unlock her—with a key, no push button unlocking for my baby—and as soon as it’s unlocked, Hitch and Annie scramble into the backseat, leaving Marco shotgun. We both get in, Marco a little gingerly, like he’s afraid the car will break beneath him, me sliding into Adelaide’s comfortable embrace with a soft sigh. I start the engine, my baby purrs to life, and I turn over my shoulder to look at Annie and Hitch. “So where’re we going?”

“The smoothie place on Third Street,” Annie tells me, and Hitch sighs, clearly put out that her date has become a group affair and that it’s going to take place at a venue that doesn’t include alcohol. “Do you know it?”

“I know Third Street.”

“Head that way. I’ll direct you when we get closer.”

“Got it.” I back out carefully, pull the car around, and start heading towards Third Street. The car falls quiet; Hitch and Annie hold a hushed conversation in the backseat, their voices too low for me to make out, and I adjust my rearview mirror so I don’t see anything I don’t want to see by accident. I’m paying far more attention to Marco, anyway; he’s sitting still in the passenger seat, looking over Adelaide’s dashboard, and after a few moments, he lifts one hand and gently touches her dash.

“This is a beautiful car, Jean.”

“Thanks.” I already think pretty highly of Marco, but this just seals the deal. Anyone who loves my car is all right by me. “She was my dad’s before she was mine.”

“What year is she?”

“She’s a 1974 280.” Bless him, he’s calling Adelaide a she and not an it. I shoot him a quick grin before turning my eyes back to the road. Driving carefully is important when you’re rolling in an antique. “My grandfather gave it to my dad when he graduated university, and then my mom gave it to me when I graduated.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Marco tilts his head a little, looking painfully adorable. “Your dad didn’t?”

Damn… I’ve inadvertently wandered into dangerous territory, and I keep my eyes on the road, my hands gripped tightly on the steering wheel, so tight my knuckles bleed white. Hitch falls silent in the back, knowing this isn’t a good topic, and I hear a shift on Adelaide’s leather seats as she leans forward. “My dad died when I was in high school.”

“Oh.” Marco sounds crestfallen, embarrassed by his gaff. “I’m… I’m really sorry.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” It’s not his fault for bringing this up, I was the one telling the story about my grandpa and my dad, but I can feel the abyss swirling in my gut, where it never sleeps, only waits. I don’t want to talk about my dad, or my grandpa… why can’t we go back to talking about my car? I can talk about my car all day, she’s a safe topic, a _good_ one, but I don’t know how to get back onto stable ground, not when everything in my chest feels like it’s going to explode.

Hitch, knowing what is about to be unleashed, comes to my rescue. “Do you hear how quiet Adelaide’s engine is? That’s because Jean replaced the original with a hybrid a few years ago.”

Thank you, god, thank you for this lifeline. I fall on it like the salvation it is. “I’d go full electric, but the electric engines aren’t powerful enough yet to propel a car as heavy as Adelaide. When they are, though…” The hybrid engine is fairly recent; I put it in more because I was tired of waiting in line all the time at the gas station and less because I care about the environment, but I’m glad I did. Adelaide has never been a peppy car, so I don’t feel less sporty because of it, and it definitely stinks less than a gas burner.

“That’s so environmentally conscious,” Marco says approvingly, just like Hitch must have known he would. Figures that he’d be into saving the earth, what with the yoga and everything. “It must have cost a lot, though.”

“Not too much.” It had been fucking ridiculously expensive, to be honest, but I’m not going to admit that. I wave a hand at the dashboard, where the sound system is new and modern. “I did it at the same time I put in the stereo.” Without needing to look, I reach down and grab my phone from the cupholder where it lives when I’m driving, tap in the code to open it, and hand it to Marco. “Here. Pick out some music for us.”

He takes the phone after a moment, and electricity travels up my arm when our fingers brush. Hitch, satisfied with this turn of events, settles into the backseat with Annie, and their hushed conversation starts up again while Marco scrolls through my phone.

“You have so much music…”

I shrug. “I like a lot of stuff. Pick whatever you want.”

“I guess so.” He scrolls through for awhile, and then soft music starts floating through the car. He picked the Paper Kites. Good call, Hitch.

~*~

Third Street is pretty quiet this time of night, and I pull Adelaide in behind Reiner’s beat up hatchback. He and Bertolt are already out of it, standing on the sidewalk and waiting for us, and I’ll be damned if Reiner isn’t holding Bertolt’s hand. Well, then… turns out Hitch was right about two of the three Deity Trio being taken. She’s been batting pretty high lately, being an excellent wingwoman; I’m going to have to tell her how much I appreciate it.

We all clamber out of Adelaide, and I’m stupidly pleased with how Marco moves to my side, taking up position there like that’s where he belongs. It might just be because everyone else we’re with is paired off and we’re the odd two out, but I’m going to choose to believe it’s because there’s some kind of spark there and he wants to be close to me.

“That’s a beautiful car, Jean,” Reiner tells me as we troop into the smoothie place, which is only a half hour or so away from closing for the night, judging by the chagrined looks on the worker’s faces when they see us. “You’ll have to let me look under the hood sometime.”

“Careful,” Marco breaks in before I can respond, “that’s Adelaide you’re talking about… pretty sure she doesn’t like being called _it_.”

I blink at him in surprise, and he shoots me a quick, sly grin, the likes of which I’ve never seen on his face before but wouldn’t mind seeing again and again. “It’s okay, she wasn’t in hearing range,” I respond dumbly, speaking to Reiner but looking at Marco, drinking him in with my eyes. “But sure, if you want. You know about cars?”

“How do you think that POS outside stays running?”

“I keep telling you you should buy a new one,” Bertolt breaks in, quiet but insistent, and then he and Reiner are arguing all the way to the counter, clearly going over well-hashed out arguments and refusals. I lift a brow at Marco, and he snickers, bringing his hand up to cover his mouth.

“They’re like an old married couple,” he whispers to me, and I nod. They _are_ like an old married couple, the kind of couple I’d like to be someday, and I’d feel jealous if I didn’t like them both. 

Everyone makes their way to the smoothie counter, and I’m a little overwhelmed by all the choies. If we were in a coffee shop, I’d be in my element, I’d know exactly what to order, but this fancy hippie juice is a little much for me, especially when all of them seem perfectly knowledgable. Even Hitch, that traitor, seems to know what she wants, like she’s been here before and knows how it all works.

Marco notices how I fall back, and he steps beside me again. “Strawberry and banana is always a good choice, if you like sweet things,” he explains to me quietly, like he knows I don’t want the others to hear and get embarrassed. “You can add some kale to it if you want a health boost, or not. I’d recommend adding a little hemp protein powder, since we just worked out and you’re probably a little depleted, but that’s optional.”

“Uh… I’ll just get whatever you get.” That sounds the easiest and with the least potential for making an ass of myself. I open my wallet and pull out a twenty I keep stashed in the back, slipping it into his hand. “That’ll cover both of us, right?”

Marco furrows his brow a little. “You don’t have to pay for me, Jean.”

“It’s nothing. You keep me from sounding like a dipshit by ordering, I’ll pay for the goods.” I shrug and grin at him. “Fair trade, as far as I’m concerned.”

The line between Marco’s eyebrows stays there another moment or two, but then it smoothes out and he closes his hand around the bill, taking it from me. “I’ll buy next time,” he insists, and I know I’m grinning like an idiot but I can’t help it: _he implied there’ll be a next time_.

Everyone else orders first, and Marco stays at my side, studying the menu and humming quietly to himself. I don’t mind; it gives me a chance to study him, to watch the way the harsh fluorescent lights cast shadows on his cheeks and under his earlobes, and I’m struck again by the urge to draw him, to capture him in charcoals and smudges and inks. I can’t remember the last time I wanted to draw like this, and half of me just wants to go home and bust out my long-ignored art supplies and see what I can make happen. The feeling gets stronger when Marco orders, smiling and being polite and friendly to the smoothie people, and I have to force myself to look away.

“Everything okay?” he asks as we’re waiting for our drinks. “You spaced out a little.”

“I’m fine.” I shrug, a little embarrassed at getting called out. “I was just thinking.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t press for more information than that, which a lot of people would, and that just makes me like him more. It also makes me want to explain.

“I was thinking about drawing.” What I wanted to draw, exactly, will take a little more prying to be revealed.

He brightens at that, giving me his full attention. “You like to draw?”

“Yeah.” I look down at my right hand, the gifted one, and flex it, watching the tendons move and splay out across the back. “I studied it in university, actually.”

“So are you an artist?”

I shake my head ruefully. “Nah, nothing that noble or self-sacrificing. I work in graphic design.”

“That sounds like fun!”

“It’s a living.” It _is_ fun, sometimes, when there’s a project that I’m passionate about, but lately it’s been an endless stream of boring, tedious shit, full of arguments about fonts and pixels and which shade of blue is the most appealing, and I usually find myself staring out my office window and counting the hours until the day is over, wondering when art will be enjoyable again.

Marco raises an eyebrow at my response, looking like he wants to say more, but then our smoothies arrive—a suspicious shade of green that reads more like vegetables than any banana or strawberry I’ve ever seen—and we collect them and go to meet up with the rest of the group.

The other four have chosen a table off in the corner, nice and private in the otherwise empty seating area, and it’s really too small for as many people as we have. In other circumstances, I’d say something, and point out the enormous booths that line the room, big enough for all of us, but I notice a strategic gap in the seating chart, just large enough for Marco and I to squeeze in, and I hold my tongue. We get settled in, with Hitch on my other side and Reiner on Marco’s, and it’s a decidedly pleasant tight squeeze, pushing us close enough that our arms brush with each little movement. I kind of wish Marco wasn’t wearing sleeves that come all the way down to his elbows, but I’ll take what I can get.

“Jean is a graphic designer!” Marco announces brightly as we sit down, and I wince internally.

“Really?” Reiner looks interested. “So you’re an artist?”

“Not really.” I stab a straw into my smoothie and take a sip, resigning myself to talking about work. The green sludge moves smoothly through the straw and into my mouth, and it’s surprisingly tasty, sweet and light and not like vegetables at all. I glance over at Marco and he’s smiling faintly, like he _knew_ I’d be surprised by the delicious taste. Well played, Mr. Bott, well played. “It’s less art and more fooling around with colors and fonts and stuff.”

“That sounds like art to me.” Reiner claps Bertolt on the back, making him jolt forward and nearly knock over his smoothie. “Bertolt’s an artist too.”

“You are?” That seems about right; Bertolt has that quiet, tortured thing going on that I remember from a lot of people in art school.

High, energetic color rises in Bertolt’s cheeks, and he looks down, shaking his head and folding his shoulders inward. “I’m not an artist. That’s just what Reiner says.”

“You _are_ ,” Reiner insists, and he digs his phone out of his hoodie pocket, tapping in his code and scrolling through it with an intent look on his face. “I keep telling you, you’re totally an artist. Here!” He holds the phone triumphantly forward, despite Bertolt’s feeble efforts to prevent it, and shows me the screen. “That’s art, right?”

I lean in to peer at the phone screen, not in the least bit sorry when the side of my arm presses against Marco. He doesn’t seem to mind, beyond leaning back a little to let me get a better look and sipping at his smoothie. He must have already seen the pictures.

At first, I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking at, and I think it’s a marble carving, something made of perfect, flawless white stone. Then I get a closer look, and laugh in surprise. “It’s a cake!” I reach out to take the phone from Reiner, and he relinquishes it happily, practically beaming with pride. 

“The next four or five pictures are all of Bertolt’s work,” he instructs, and I scroll through them. Each cake is more elaborate and elegant than the last; there’s one that almost defies gravity, sitting up on graceful, spindly little legs, and another with flowers cascading down the side. “Everything on those is edible,” Reiner explains, leaning in on Marco’s other side so he’s sandwiched between the two of us. “Those flowers are made of spun sugar, and the legs on that one? Marzipan.”

“Bertolt, these are amazing.” I hand Reiner his phone back, and he sits up straight again, putting his free hand on Bertolt’s back and rubbing in small circles. Bertolt has sunk so low in his chair that his chin is nearly touching the table, but he nods in response to my compliment. “How long have you been baking?”

“A long time,” he answers, and slowly starts to sit back up, apparently bolstered by Reiner’s touch and encouragement. “I’ve been making wedding cakes for about two years now.”

“I hardly ever see him during the spring and summer. He gets booked up about six months in advance,” Reiner boasts.

“People like what I do.”

“That’s an understatement, I’d say.” I don’t know much about wedding cakes, but it’s pretty clear that what Bertolt does is something special. It’s also clear that the whole conversation is embarrassing him, so I try and steer things back to someone a little more lively. “What about you, Reiner? Are you in the cake business too?”

Reiner booms with good-natured laughter, making the people behind the counter lift up their heads in surprise. He holds his hands out, enormous, scarred paws with callouses all over the palms. “Do these look like hands that can make cakes?”

“Not really.”

“Not at all, more like.” He drops his hands, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “What do you think? What’s my job?”

“Reiner…” Annie complains with a long-suffering sigh, but Hitch quietens her down with a laugh and a hand on her forearm.

I sit back, looking at Reiner and thinking about it. “Military?” The bristly haircut looks military, and he’s certainly big enough for it.

Reiner shakes his head. “Close, though. I’m ex-military, did ROTC in university and then two years overseas.”

“That counts for half, then!”

“Okay, you’re half right. What’s the other half?”

“Law enforcement?”

“God, no! I got enough of those MP bastards when I was abroad.” Reiner hands me his phone again, and I take it, mystified. “Scroll one past the last cake picture.”

I do, and it’s a fluffy little dog with bright eyes, its tongue lolling out, stretching up on its hind legs, reaching for the camera. “Dog trainer?”

More booming laughter. “No, but close enough. I’m a vet.”

It takes me a moment to realize what he means. “So you’re a double vet.”

He grins widely and tips a wink at me. “Damn straight. I work in my dad’s practice. I deal with the large animals, he mostly handles the dogs and cats.”

I give him back his phone. “Cool. I’ll have to ask for the practice’s number the next time my mom’s dog gets the sniffles.”

“Reiner and his dad are really good,” Marco breaks in quietly. “They’ve worked wonders with my cats.”

“I’d like to take credit for that, Marco, but that was completely my dad.”

“What do you do, Annie?” Hitch interrupts cheerily, and attention at the table shifts to the two ladies, who so far have done an admirable job ignoring us. Not that I blame them: Hitch already knows all about my work, and I gather that Annie and the two guys are close.

I expect Annie to deflect or not say anything, and she surprises me when she answers. “I go to school part time, and I’m a trainer at an MMA academy.” I must look like I don’t know what she’s talking about—which I don’t—because she rolls her eyes and clarifies further. “Mixed martial arts.”

“You’re a fighter?” I can’t keep the incredulity out of my voice, and Hitch frowns at me and kicks my ankle under the table.

Annie gives me a flat, unimpressed look, like she’s heard this a million times before. “Want me to prove it?”

“Don’t do it,” Reiner warns me. “She spent most of her time beating up on me when we were younger, and I got my growth spurt early. She still kicked my ass.”

“You two are related?” Yes, deflection, make me look like less of an asshole!

“Same mother, different fathers.” Annie flips her long bangs back, tucking them behind one ear. “We didn’t live together until we were teenagers.”

I open my mouth to ask more, but the thunderous look in Annie’s eyes shut me down. There’s another thing I’d like to try and draw, the way her face clouds over and shuts everyone out, and I feel a pang of guilt that I might’ve screwed things up for Hitch. I can save this, though, and I turn my attention to Hitch. “Tell them about the publishing work you do, Hitch.”

Hitch gleefully and smoothly launches into a description of what she does at the magazine where she works, leaving out the parts about her father owning it and most of her money coming from her trust fund. I sit back, letting her talk, and focus on my smoothie until I feel a feather light little touch on my wrist. Every nerve is instantly galvanized, and I look sideways at Marco, trying not to draw attention to what I’m doing.

He’s smiling at me, a sweet, grateful smile that’s just for me, and mouths _thank you_ before giving my wrist a little squeeze and letting it go. As soon as his hand moves away, I miss it, and I debate reaching across the table and taking it, just holding it in mine like we’re in middle school or something. With another guy (or a girl), I’d probably go for it, but there’s something about Marco, something that tells me the hard sell isn’t going to work with him. I look down at my own hand, smile a little, and nod. You’re welcome, Marco. Happy to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted a little earlier than usual, because I care. And also because I have an actual yoga class to go to tonight and want to get it out there and ready before that. XD


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's my ride home.
> 
> Jean and Marco finally get some one-on-one time.

We all pour out of the smoothie shop and onto the street about a half hour later, and I’m delighted that my legs haven’t totally gone stiff underneath me. I feel… I feel _good_ , pliant and flexible and just happy in a way I haven’t for a long time, and I can’t help turning my face up to the sky and laughing a little.

Which Reiner seems to view as a chance to attack, and before I know it, I’m scooped up in his arms like a little kid, getting crushed in a giant bear hug. He lifts me clear off my feet and knocks all the breath out of me before I can protest, and I only manage to squirm fruitlessly for a moment before he puts me down. It feels like trying to escape from an iron vice, and I draw in a full, whooping breath when he releases me.

Reiner seems to understand that he might have been a little much, and holds me on both shoulders, steadying me until I’m over the surprise and have my balance again. “Really glad you came tonight, man,” he tells me, sounding genuinely truthful and earnest, and even though my ribs still feel bruised, I manage to smile back at him and punch him in the shoulder. 

“Glad I came.” Okay, don’t punch Reiner; I drop my hand to my side and flex it, trying to make my knuckles stop stinging. Reiner, that bastard, seems to know exactly what happened to my hand and grins knowingly, then turns and descends on everyone else. I watch, amused, as both Marco and Hitch get a hug, just as enthusiastic and grabby as mine. When he gets to Annie, she drops into a defensive position, they scuffle a little bit, and Reiner ends up on his knees on the sidewalk, one arm wrenched behind his back and Annie’s small sneaker braced on his shoulder.

“You never learn, do you?” She sounds hopelessly bored, but the corners of her mouth are turning up a little, like she’s almost smiling, and for the first time, I can see the familial resemblance between them.

She lets Reiner up after proverbially busting his balls a little, and submits to a quick, side-only hug. Then Reiner and Bertolt are folding themselves into their car and waving as they drive away, leaving the four of us standing on the sidewalk.

“We’re going downtown,” Hitch tells me, and though she sounds friendly enough, she’s shooting daggers at me with her eyes, and I get the point. Her date has been derailed long enough, and she wants Annie to herself. Which is fine with me, because I’d like a little more face time with Marco anyway.

“Okay. Call a car service if you drink too much, yeah?”

She rolls her eyes at me. “Yes, _dad_.” Before I can respond, she’s dragging Annie off down the sidewalk, towards a subway entrance.

Marco watches them go, his expression fond. “I think they like each other.”

“I know they do.” I shake my head. “Hitch isn’t exactly subtle.”

“Neither is Annie.” I must look surprised, because he laughs, the sound joyous and infectious. “You just have to know what to look for.”

“I guess so.” We stand there a moment, awkward on the sidewalk, and I ponder how, if Marco were anyone else, if this were any other kind of evening, I might be inviting him to come over to my place for the evening, letting the implication hang heavy and obvious in the air. But I get the feeling, deep in my bones, that if I tried that with him, I’d scare him off, and I desperately don’t want to scare him away.

“Do you need a ride home?”

“If you wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all.” I lead him to Adelaide, parked and waiting patiently for us under a puddle of lamp light. I unlock her doors and we both slide into her warm, comforting embrace. As the car starts up, I hand him my phone again. “Choose some music for us?”

“I think I’ll just put it on shuffle this time.” He looks away, almost like he’s embarrassed. “I want to hear more of what you like.”

“Oh god, this could be interesting.” I pull Adelaide out onto the deserted street and get us turned around towards the studio, driving much more slowly and leisurely than usual. “I like a lot of different stuff, we might get a pretty weird mix.” 

“Maybe Genius, then.” 

“That might be better.” I glance over and see that he’s biting his bottom lip as he searches through my iTunes, his face lit by the glow of the phone, his bangs hanging over his forehead, and it’s another thing I want to draw, another thing my hand itches to capture. If nothing else, hanging out with Marco and his friends has been great for inspiring some much-needed creativity.

He eventually finds a song—and I like that it took him awhile, that he really considered the type of song he wanted, like music is important to him—and the soft, melodious voice of Birdy fills the car. “I love these covers,” he says quietly, closing his eyes as White Winter Hymnal floats through the speakers.

“She’s amazing,” I agree. “Best British voice since Amy Winehouse.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I like Adele too.”

“Adele’s good. A little too popular and commercialized for my tastes.”

“Why, Mr. Kirschtein…” Marco opens one eye and watches me from across the car, his voice teasing. “Are you a hipster music snob?”

I shrug, smiling back at him. “Maybe a little.”

“I knew it.” He closes his eye again, nestling into Adelaide’s leather seats. “The Paper Kites t-shirt was a dead giveaway.”

I chuckle and nod, and we drive without speaking for a little while, just letting the music float around us. It’s almost strange, how comfortable I feel around him, like I don’t need to fill every moment with chatter. Still, there’s been something on my mind, and I break into Marco’s quiet time to ask.

“Hey, Marco?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you know the story with Annie and Reiner?”

He opens his eyes and sits up straighter, and he sounds a little wary when he answers. “What do you mean?”

“They’re brother and sister, right?”

“Half, but yeah.”

“And they didn’t live together before they were teenagers?”

“No.”

“What’s the story with that?”

“Well…” Marco looks out the window, chewing on his lower lip again, and I have to fight the urge to pull the car over and pull his lower lip in between mine and kiss all his worries away. “I mean, I don’t know all the details. If you want those, you should ask Reiner. I know that he had an easier time with the whole thing than she did.”

“So she came to live with Reiner and his family?”

“Yeah. Her dad took care of her when she was little, but then something happened to him when she got older and he couldn’t take care of her anymore, so she went to live with Reiner’s family.”

“That must’ve been pretty rough.” Marco glances over in surprise, and I realize I sounded a little more heartfelt than was necessary. I shrug and try to laugh it off. “I’m close with my mom, that’s all.”

“I’m close with mine too,” he shares, and he reaches across the car to touch me on the arm, quick and fleeting and then gone. This guy… he’s going to be the end of me, with his gentle, unexpected, and always far too short touching. It just makes me burn up inside, always wanting more, wanting to feel his hands all over me, wondering if everything he does is as thoughtful as his yoga practice. “Annie and Reiner’s, though… I guess she ran off on two guys and left them both with a kid.”

“Wow.” That’s something you usually hear about men doing; it’s kind of refreshing to hear that women can be absolute shitheels sometimes too.

“I _know_. Annie and Reiner aren’t that far apart in age, either; I think he’s only a year and a half older than she is.”

“So she had the kids and then ditched them one right after the other.”

“Yeah. And neither one of them knows where she is. For all they know, they could have other brothers and sisters out there that they don’t know about.”

“That’s _crazy_.”

“ _So_ crazy.” Marco laughs a little, and slouches down in his seat. “We’re being super rude, though. No more gossiping.”

“No more gossiping,” I agree, although I’m really a gossipy little bitch and could cheerfully talk about this for quite awhile longer. We’re closing in on a red light, and while I could easily speed up and make it, I slow down and stop, Adelaide’s engine switching to electric and vibrating silently. “So, uh… you know I’m in graphic design, and I know you’re a yoga teacher…”

“I’m also going to school.”

“Yeah? For what?” I want to know everything I can about Marco, everything he’s willing to give me. I turn my head towards him, and his silhouette is framed in street lights, every line of his face highlighted in light that is somehow golden instead of glaring and harsh.

“Psychology.” He smiles a little, ducking his head down like he’s had a sudden attack of shyness. “I want to be counselor.”

This guy… “Like at a high school?”

“No.” He shakes his head emphatically. “Like, I like kids and everything, but no. I want to work with the military, mostly veterans coming back from combat who need help integrating back into normal life.”

“Wow,” I repeat for the second time; is this guy even capable of _not_ being sweet and heartfelt? “That’s awfully specific. Is that something where there’s a big demand?”

“Oh yes!” He turns around fully in his seat so he’s facing me, and I wish this light would stay red forever, just so I can drink in his features, the sound of his voice, the faint trace of his scent that wafts up every time he moves. “It’s not really talked about, but a lot of, if not most, veterans have a really hard time integrating back into society after deployment, especially if they’ve been injured, and there aren’t a lot of resources out there to help them. There’s this real culture in the military of not talking about what you experienced, dating all the way back to the second World War, and…”

He goes on, his face alight with passion, his hands moving as he gestures, and I try to remember the last time I felt that excited, that delighted, about anything. I try to remember caring that much about anything at work, anything at all, and I just come up blank. Marco is talking about doing real work, about really making a difference, and my job of moving text one pixel to the right or left just pales in comparison.

“Jean.”

“Hmmm?”

“The light is green.”

“Huh? Oh!” I wrench my gaze away from him, realizing that I’d lost focus, and turn forward again. The light certainly is green, and looks like it’s been that way for awhile. Fortunately, there’s no one behind us, ruining the moment with honking, and I put Adelaide into gear and pull forward. “Sorry, I… I was listening to your story.”

“Looks more like you were thinking about something else.” There’s no judgment in Marco’s tone, and when I glance at him, he’s smiling a little, looking warm and open and kind. If this is how he’s going to deal with his future patients (clients?), he’s going to do a wonderful job. “What were you thinking about, Jean?”

 _You_ , I want to say. _I was thinking about you, and how at first I just wanted to fuck you, and believe me, I still do, I want to fuck you so damn badly, but the more I get to know you, the more I want more than that, the more I want to be more than a lay to you, and that scares me to death because I’m not good at being more than that, I don’t know_ how _to be more than that, and you scare me to death because you make me want something I don’t know how to have._

“Work.” It’s a pale, pathetic substitute for what I want to say, but it’s safe. “What you were saying was making me think about my job, that’s all.”

“Yeah? Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Not really.” I try to laugh, but it comes out like a bark. “I don’t want to bore you.”

“Okay.” Anyone else would pry, but Marco accepts that excuse as completely valid, and I fall a little harder for him. “If you ever want to talk about it, though, I’m happy to listen.”

And the thing is, I actually believe him when he says that. “Thanks.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

We lapse into companionable silence after that, sweet, soft music filling the car as my iTunes shuffles through gentle alternative hipster music. Outside, it starts to rain a little, just enough to smear the streetlights through the windshield and make things seem cozy, and as our breath starts to fog the windshield, a sense of calm settles over me. I could drive like this forever, Marco at my side and Adelaide taking us effortlessly into the future.

As we get closer to the studio, Marco perks up a little and points down a side street. “Turn here.”

All good things must come to an end. I turn, and pull over to the curb when Marco tells me we’re at his building. It’s an older part of town, a few streets ahead of the hipsters and gentrification, and Marco’s building is old and forbidding, its windows dark and streaked with the drizzling rain.

“Thanks for coming with us tonight.” I don’t want him to leave.

Luckily for me, Marco seems awfully comfortable as well, and makes no move to get out of the car. “I had fun. I’m technically not supposed to hang out with students outside of class, but the studio is pretty lax about that rule.”

“We didn’t get you in trouble, did we?”

“Nah.” He waves a hand lazily. “They love me over there, I’ll be fine.”

“Good.” I have to look down at my hands, away from him, so I can keep myself on track. “You’re a great teacher, I’d hate to have to find another one.”

“Really?” He sounds inordinately pleased by that, and as I glance over at him, I catch a quick flash of one of his bright, beatific smiles. “Thank you.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Are you going to become a regular then?”

“Probably.” I laugh, and it sounds a lot more genuine than last time. “I don’t think Hitch is going to let me _not_ become a regular.”

“She does have a tendency to get her way, doesn’t she?”

“That she does.” Marco shifts beside me, and I turn towards him. He’s fully turned around, looking at me head on, and he’s so beautiful it makes my chest hurt. I can’t help myself; I look directly at his lips, full and lush and tinted red by the light filtering through the car, and I want to kiss him so badly, so badly it’s almost a physical ache deep in my gut. My own lips fall open a little, and I run my tongue over them, as nervous as a fourteen year old at Homecoming, but still, I lean forward, closing the distance between us a little. And Marco, I swear he leans in too, that he positions himself to be closer to me, that he’s going to kiss me, and it will be a perfect first kiss in the enveloping warmth of the car, just as “All of You” shuffles onto the stereo.

But then he’s opening the car door, letting in a rush of cool air, and I blink as it hits me. “Thanks for the ride, Jean.” He touches my arm again, his hand lingering long enough that it’s almost a caress—or maybe my desperate heart just wants to imagine it’s a caress—and then he’s gone, Adelaide’s door shutting firmly behind him, silencing a faint sound of beeping that I can’t place.

I blink again, my mind refusing to believe what just happened and my lips still primed for a kiss that’s never coming, and I watch him run to his building with his arms over his head, getting pelted by the rain. He doesn’t look back as he ducks inside the entryway, the building swallowing him whole, and I slam myself back into my seat with a groan.

“Dammit, dammit, dammit!” Way to go, Kirschtein, way to completely scare him away. I savagely turn off the stereo, silencing John Legend mid-verse, and beat my hands impotently against Adelaide’s steering wheel, trying to will my galloping heart into calming down.

One of the windows in the building floods with light, warm and buttery yellow, and the building suddenly looks infinitely friendlier than it did before. I crane my head to look up at it, and Marco’s standing there, silhouetted in golden light, cradling something near his neck, and he lifts his free hand and waves at me. I wave back, unable to help the smile that immediately welcomes itself onto my face, and I don’t pull away from the curb until he leaves the window and retreats back inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs mentioned in this chapter are:
> 
> Bloom, by the Paper Kites  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8inJtTG_DuU
> 
> White Winter Hymnal, covered by Birdy  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7LlKoQAvXUc
> 
> All of Me, by John Legend  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=450p7goxZqg
> 
> This isn't the first time All of Me has shown up in a story of mine about Jean and Marco.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean has some time to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the change in tags and rating. ;)

I drive myself home in a daze, barely noticing as the city slides away around me. Normally, I like driving, just cruising around and seeing what’s out there, finding out the secrets the city hides away from everyone unwilling to look. Tonight, though, my head is filled with freckles and soft, almost shy smiles, and every bump or uneven spot on the pavement sends maddeningly jolts through my groin, and I growl between my teeth as I clench the steering wheel as tightly as I can.

“Why, Adelaide? How’d I screw that up?”

Adelaide just purrs underneath me. She might be a wonderful form of transportation, but she’s never been much on the advice side of things. I’d call Hitch, but I can guarantee that she’s occupied with other things right now, and I’m pretty sure my other best friend is out on an expedition this week and far away from Skype. I could call my mom, but I frankly don’t need to hear about how cute I am right now, and that, sadly, narrows my field of possibilities right the hell down.

By the time I get back to my building and pull Adelaide into my parking spot, I’ve worked myself into a gloomy funk, and I’m glad I sneak in through the back and not have to deal with the doorman. He’s a nice enough guy, but I’m just not in the mood tonight. I slink up to my apartment without seeing another soul, and let myself in, flicking on the lights as soon as I come in the door.

My apartment yawns open around me, all open space and sharp, clean lines, neutral colors and bold geometry. I hadn’t used a consultant when I chose the furniture for it, trusting my own gut above someone paid to upsell on fancy couches, but I’d decorated knowing that I would eventually entertain in here, that people from work would come in and see it, and there is a certain aesthetic in my line of work that can’t be avoided. I couldn’t be the only guy in the firm with an apartment that looked like Comic Sans while everyone else’s looked like Sans Serif or Helvetica, so I’d chosen my furnishings and decorations carefully. 

It’s basically fancy, overpriced Ikea. Normally I like that, but tonight… tonight it just feels empty.

I turn off the overhead lights as soon as I get a lamp in the living room turned on, and I settle onto my couch moodily, staring out through the picture window that takes up an entire wall, now blurry and streaked with rain. I’m out of sorts, edgy, feeling like my skin doesn’t fit the way it’s supposed to, like something underneath the surface is itching, crawling, longing to get out. It doesn’t help that I’ve had half an erection ever since Marco leaned forward like he was going to kiss me, and it refuses to go away. I’d beat off and deal with it, but that would just feel like defeat.

“Fuuuuuuck…” I kick my feet up on the coffee table and flop my head back, staring up at the ceiling in dismay. This is _not_ how I wanted to be spending my evening.

I remember, then, how I’d wanted to draw Marco, how I’d watched him in the smoothie shop, catching glimpses of him whenever I could and whenever it wouldn’t seem creepy, almost as though I was studying his features and trying to remember them. Like I was waiting for this exact moment. I haul myself up off the couch—and my spine is feeling surprisingly, unusually limber, flexible and painfree in a way I’d almost forgotten it could be after spending years hunched over a computer—and move to my bedroom.

My box of art supplies is tucked away in the closet, back behind luggage and winter gear and who knows what else, fashion bought and discarded when it went out of style, and it showers the top of my head with dust when I pull it free. I give my head a shake—no one around to comment on the state of my hair anyway—and sneeze as the dust flies off and settles on the back of my hands. I carry the box into the living room and clear off the coffee table, swiping back issues of Kinfolk and The New Yorker onto the floor, and settle the box on the open space. It looks small there, almost lost, and I open it slowly, reverently, with far too much care for something that’s been forgotten for so long.

I can’t remember the last time I got into these supplies, but Past Me put them away neatly, lining everything up carefully and in an orderly fashion, so everything is easy to find. I pull out loose sheets of paper, rubber erasers, bottles of ink; I ignore the paints, not in the mood to deal with the fussiness of oils or the temperament of watercolors; I dig into the bottom of the box where I know the best graphite and charcoal always ends up. I pull my hand out triumphant, holding a stick of charcoal that fits in my hand like it was molded to it, and for the first time since Marco left the car, relaxation settles back over my shoulders. 

I got this. I know what I need to do now.

I don’t bother to turn on the overhead lights again; I need soft light right now, shadows and mood, and between the lamp on the table and the flickering lights of the city out my rain-streaked window, I’m covered. I spread out a sheet of paper on the table, shift my hand minutely around the piece of charcoal, breathe out… and touch the charcoal to paper.

I’m rusty at first—it’s been a long time since I’ve drawn by hand—and I fill the first sheet with doodles and sketches, quick, scratchy lines and hurried gestures, jagged and scrawled. It’s nothing special, nothing even pretty, but by the time the page is full, I’m starting to get my rhythm back. My heart might have forgotten what this was like, but my hand remembers, and it carries the rest of me along, creating faces and shoulders and hands, letting them march across the surface of the paper. I shove the first sheet aside, letting it fall carelessly to the floor, and get started on another one.

This time, I go slower, letting lessons from art school that have lain long dormant in my mind come back to me, lessons about perspective and shading and proportion lift their heads for the first time in ages. I shy away from drawing Marco’s face, afraid I won’t be able to capture it yet, and let the bold, powerful lines of his shoulders emerge instead, and the way his hands had looked, spread out on the floor, showing me how to position my own in downward dog. I wish I’d paid more attention to his hands, that I could draw them in other positions, but all I manage is them spread on the floor and wrapped around a smoothie glass, and one in a blur of motion as he pushed the hair off his forehead. I start drawing one in a fist, bunched up and gripping a piece of fabric—who am I kidding, that’s supposed to be a bed sheet—but my inability to capture it frustrates me and I give up. That hand is fantasy, not reality, no matter how much I’d like it to be, and I can’t draw it. Not yet.

I try drawing him in one of the yoga postures, in the triangle one he helped me with tonight, and I frown when I’m sure I get it wrong. Something about it just doesn’t look right, but I’m in the zone, and I don’t want to stop and get my phone to check a reference. Getting up would ruin the mood, and it’s a fragile, delicate thing, something that would be lost with the intrusion of the internet. I’ll check the yoga pose later.

My hand is starting to ache a little, more used to clicking a computer mouse than holding a drawing tool these days, and I switch the charcoal—worn down to a little nub now—out for a piece of graphite. A new sheet of paper, and I start by drawing Hitch; I’ve drawn her before, many times, and it’s familiar, easy, to capture her elvish face, her smirk and the way her eyes draw up at the corners. I sketch a few more facial shapes, no one in particular, just to warm up, just to get the feel of drawing back in my hand. I try Marco next, ignoring the doubts that squirm in my belly, the voices that say there’s no way I’ll be able to capture him, and do my best, just focusing on the lines of his face, the high-curving arc of his forehead, the way his hair falls forward, almost getting into his eyes. It takes me a few tries, but I get it. 

I sit back, my spine crackling as I stretch my shoulders, and look out my window. For a moment, I can’t figure out what looks wrong, then I realize that the lights in the other buildings have been turned off and the rain has stopped. I get up, my legs shaking a little and my right foot so soundly asleep that it’s completely numb, and limp to the window.

The city slumbers before me, all the traffic lights blinking red and yellow, with not a single person in sight. It’s as though I’m the last person in the world, and I drop the graphite on the floor, straightening out my fingers with a creak, and touch the glass. It’s chilly under my fingertips, and I drop my forehead to the glass, breathing out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and watching the glass fog in the corners of my vision. I’m exhausted, I realize, my hand aching and my eyes blurry and scratchy with sleep, and although the spirit is willing, the flesh is weak and strung out after a week at work, and I stumble to my bedroom without looking back, falling on top of the t-shirts I never put away. I reach out to drag a pillow under my head, but I’m asleep before I know if I make it or not.

~*~

“Goddamn, you’re fine.”

“You’re just saying that so I’ll hold still while you draw me.” He sounds pleased though, and his grip on the bathrobe he’s wearing loosens a little. “I’ve never done this before, so I don’t know if I’ll be any good at all.”

“It’s easy. All you have to do is look beautiful and hold still.”

“Now you’re just flattering me.” Marco looks over at the chair I have set up, his brow furrowing a little, and while I don’t want to rush him, we’re going to lose the light if he keeps being bashful. He toys with the neckline of the bathrobe a little more, and I’m about to tell him that if he’s not into this today, I can just do some studies of his hands instead, when he swallows, takes a step forward, and drops the bathrobe off his shoulders.

“How do you want me to pose?” he asks, doing his best to sound brave and just sounding nervous instead, and I can’t answer right away; I’m too busy staring at the lines through his shoulders, at the curve of muscle down the middle of his back, and yeah, I’m trash, I totally check out his ass too. Yoga must do a body good, because I’d swear I could bounce a quarter off that thing. And he’s freckled _everywhere_ , literally everywhere, and my artistic side squirms with delight at the thought of how interesting that’s going to look on the paper. My horny side wonders how long it would take to trace a path of them with my tongue.

“Uh… just on the chair for now. Get comfortable?” I don’t want to admit it, but I’m no good at posing people; I’m too used to models who just come in and do their thing so I can draw them. For all that I like to hear the sound of my own voice, I’m not so good at using it to tell other people what to do. Especially not when I like them as much as Marco.

He walks over to the chair, and I unabashedly watch his ass as he moves, drinking in the way his muscles shift under his skin. He eyes the chair for a moment—really more of a chaise lounge, but now isn’t the time to be snobby—and sits on the end of it, his knees together and his hands modestly covering his crotch. A shame, but probably best for both of us, since I don’t want to let the half-chub I’m packing explode into a full, raging boner.

“Just hold still, okay? I’ll tell you when I want you to move.” He nods, then freezes, so intent on staying still that he looks awkward and artificial, like nothing I want to draw. I can’t tell him that, though, so I start sketching, trying to capture his nerves and jitters down on paper. My lines are shaky, jagged, especially around his shoulders, and I spend a lot of time on his hands, trying to capture the way they’re protecting his groin.

I don’t look up to his face until several minutes later, once I’m sure I’ve done his hands justice, and Marco is watching me, a little smile on his face. “You look so intent when you’re drawing.”

I shrug, a little embarrassed, and get out a new sheet of paper. “I’m focusing. Want to try lying down now?”

He obediently shifts, lying on his side with his back facing me, and I get back to work, sketching the long, smooth lines of his spine, cross-hatching shadows where his muscles interplay over each other. And I probably linger a little too long on his ass. It’s for art. I want this sketch to have the best butt possible, and for that, I need to look closely at my source material. Da Vinci would back me up on this, ass gazing in this context is totally legit.

It goes like this for awhile, Marco changing postures and me drawing the results, and it’s nice. There’s no other way to describe it: it’s really, really nice to have someone I can work with so well, someone who gets tired of posing right around the same time I’m ready to draw something new, someone who can hold so still and be so patient. And it’s also nice getting to look at him like this, letting my eyes crawl over him and being able to excuse it as for art.

I’m just about done with a page—he’s standing up, his back facing me, one hip cocked to the side, and I’ve spent quite awhile working on his calves and how the muscle bulges out—when I glance up and he’s watching me, that little, indulgent smile still on his face. I open my mouth to speak, but he beats me to it.

“For the next one, why don’t you tell me exactly how you want me to pose?”

My mind goes blank. There are a lot of ways I’d like him to pose, a lot of ways I’d like to draw him, and almost all of them are entirely inappropriate. He just waits as I flounder, that patient, knowing expression on his face, and I almost want him to freeze exactly like this, so I can draw his face.

It comes to me after a moment, the way I knew it would. “Can you lay on your back, with your head towards the big part of the couch?”

“Like this?” He turns around, his hands at his sides and not dropping to cover his crotch, and it is only through torturous self-control that I keep my eyes on his chest. It’s a wonderful chest, but that’s a small consolation prize when his dick is _right there_ , and I have to be professional and not gawk at it.

“Yeah. Now one arm on your side, and the other one above your head…”

He falls into the pose naturally, seeming to read my mind and know exactly what I want. “Are you going to draw me like one of your French girls, Jean?”

Fuck, he’s on to me. I look down at my paper and fuss with my pencils, trying to hide how flustered I am. “If you want that, you’d have to wear garters and a corset.”

I expect indignation, and when he’s perfectly silent, I glance up. He’s watching me, one eyebrow raised like he’s actually _considering_ it, and god help me, now the idea’s in my head and I’ll never be able to jack off to anything else ever again. I raise my eyebrow back at him, he waggles both of his at me, and we laugh, diffusing the tension in the room. “Okay, keep your face still now.”

“Yes, Jack.”

“ _Jean_.”

“Yes, Jean.” He goes still then, and I start with his head and shoulders. The way he’s laying, practically lounging on the couch, makes all the lines of his body smooth and flowing, beautiful like running water, and I spend a long time on his midsection and the shadows of his abs. The way his hand curls on his hip is wonderful, possessive and masculine and somehow a little unsure, all at the same time, and I spend a long time on that too. In contrast, he leaves the hand above his head open, the fingers falling away from the palm like a flower’s petals, the thumb casting a little shadow on his broad forehead. His eyes are dark, shadowed by long lashes, and he watches me the entire time. With anyone else, that would be disconcerting, but somehow, it makes me feel safe and unafraid. Like he cares what I’m doing.

Finally, when there’s nothing left to draw, when I need to make at least some attempt at it or the drawing will look incomplete, I look down to his crotch.

Oh god. Oh sweet god in heaven, he has the best cock I’ve seen in a long, long time. And it’s erect. And as I stare at it, transfixed, he gets up off the couch and comes over, standing at my shoulder, his dick so close I can feel the heat of it on my arm.

“Can I see?” Without waiting for a response, he leans over my shoulder, looking down at my drawing, close enough that I could lean over and kiss him if I wanted to. I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he looks over my work, looming so large I could count his freckles if I wanted to. He takes his time, really studying my drawing, and when he turns to me, I’m holding my breath.

“That’s so good, it looks just like me!” He smiles, his face lighting up from within, and just as I’m starting to lean in for a kiss, he turns and looks back at the paper, pointing at the blank patch where his crotch should be. “I think I’m missing something, though.”

“I, uh…” I have to swallow, my throat suddenly dry. “I’m not done yet.”

“Do you need to get a closer look?”

“Do I… huh?” _Not_ the answer I was expecting. I’m sure I heard him wrong, or at least misunderstood, but then he’s taking the paper out of my nerveless fingers and setting it aside, moving around to the front of my seat. Before I have a chance to react, to come up with anything smooth to say or even move to hide the massive erection I’m sporting, he’s sidled onto my lap, straddling and lowering himself over my thighs, and he’s heavier than I thought he’d be, heavier and warmer and so very real and present and _there_.

“I asked…” he looks down at me from his perch across my legs, watching me through his thick eyelashes, “if you wanted…” He leans closer, and my hands rise automatically to fall on his hips, leaving streaks of charcoal and graphite across his skin. “A closer look.” He leans so close his breath brushes across my lips, so close I can practically taste him, and I close my eyes and go for it, moving forward to brush our lips together.

~*~

I jolt awake.

I’m disoriented for a moment, not knowing where I am, swearing I can still feel the heat of Marco’s mouth on my lips, the weight of him on my legs. Then I spot my nightstand, and it all comes together.

I roll onto my back with a groan, throwing an arm over my eyes to block out the thin, pale morning light filtering in through the window. A Titanic inspired dream? Really? What am I, a fourteen year old girl from 1997? And dammit, I never took off my running tights and shorts from yesterday, and now they’re full of a sticky, uncomfortable mess. I swear I can feel it cooling and sealing itself into my pubes, and I lurch out of bed with a disgruntled snort. 

Coming in my pants after a sex dream like a goddamn teenager, what the hell? I’ve got it _bad_.

~*~

A quick shower later—complete with my dick opportunistically perking back to life, wondering if there was going to be any more fantasizing about Marco today and if it might get a second round—and I slouch out into the kitchen, pointedly ignoring the scattered papers from last night’s artfest. That had to have been a fluke, brought on by kale and chia seeds and whatever else was in that smoothie; it’s been a long, long time since I’ve done any illustrations, and that part of my life is behind me now. There’s no point in trying to resurrect something long dead.

I make myself a cup of coffee so strong the spoon almost stands up in it and collapse onto the couch. My phone is blinking on the coffee table, letting me know that someone messaged me last night, but I ignore it for now; my eyes crawl critically over the drawings I did last night instead, summoning up all the old critique language I remember from art school.

I’m rusty as hell, that much is obvious, but I can’t say the sketches are terrible. My anatomy needs work—it always needs work—but everyone is recognizable as a person, so that’s half the battle won. On the page of facial shapes, I can recognize which one is supposed to be Marco, and when I look a little closer at the other ones, I realize that Reiner and Annie worked their way onto the page too, along with one that I’m pretty sure is Bertolt. Everyone I’d spent the evening with is represented, and I shake my head before letting the paper drop to the floor.

What’s wrong with me? This isn’t me. I’m not some tortured, moon-eyed art student, letting his friend’s faces creep into character design because he doesn’t know any better. I’m a professional, a member of a large, respected company, with a 401K and a loft I own outright and an entire network of clients and other designers that I’ve carefully cultivated over the years. I don’t need the dorks from the yoga class to be complete.

I nod, convincing myself that this is the truth, and pick up my phone. It’s not unheard of for a client to text me in the middle of the night with some asinine question, and for the rates they pay, they want someone to respond to their whims immediately.

Nothing from work, thankfully. There’s a Snapchat from Hitch, showing two pairs of sneakers, both small and feminine, in a tangle in an unknown entryway. The only comment attached to it is a series of exclamation points, and I grin; looks like someone got lucky last night. Good for her. The text is from an unknown number, and I frown as I open it, hoping it’s not spam.

**hey, it’s Reiner. got your # from Hitch. i’m going for a run this morning, want to join?**

I read it twice, my sleep-and-lust-fogged brain having trouble comprehending it at first. I check the timestamp, and he sent it about half an hour ago, right when I was waking up and doing the Frog Step of Shame to the shower. It’s kind of flattering, in a weird way, that he bothered Hitch to get my number to invite me on a run, and I glance down at the paper on the floor, my eyes unerringly finding the broad, square face that’s so obviously Reiner I don’t know how I could have thought otherwise last night.

Do I want to go on a run? I take a quick assessment of myself, and I find that I’m feeling surprisingly good this morning. I didn’t get a lot of sleep, true, but I’m not hungover, and my muscles feel limber and strong, eager to go and be used. I usually run on the weekend anyway, but this’ll be the first time I ever tried to do it early instead of waiting until the evening.

What the hell.

I text Reiner back, and he responds almost immediately with a time and place. I confirm, and get up to go get dressed for a run, catching myself humming as I do.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean goes for a run and gets to know Reiner and Bertolt better.

Thirty minutes later, I amble into the park. I could have driven, but I decided to walk, figuring it would be a good warm-up. I don’t get out much in the early mornings—usually on the weekends, if I’m up and moving by 11 AM, I consider it a win—and it’s kind of neat, seeing the city when it’s just starting to wake up. The sun is slowly rising over the buildings, and the birds that live under eaves and in the trees are awake and noisy now, yelling back and forth at each other with all the bird gossip. By the time I get to the park, I’m awake and feisty, ready to go and burn off some of this energy, and I start looking around for Reiner.

It doesn’t take long to find him; he’s waiting close to the entrance, stretching his hamstrings by throwing one foot at a time onto a nearby park bench. I see him before he sees me, and it gives me a chance to marvel at his legs, fully exposed in a pair of tiny runner’s shorts—as I get closer, I’m pretty convinced that his thighs are as big around as my waist, and that he could crush my skull between them without even having to break a sweat. I’ve hung out with the guy, he’s even hugged me and picked me up before, but I never quite realized how massively _big_ he is. He could play Gregor Clegane on Game of Thrones and it would be completely believable, except for how he seems incapable of being anything besides good-natured and happy-go-lucky.

He spots me then and lifts a hand in a cheerful wave, and I lope the rest of the way over to him. “Hey.” Standing next to him makes me feel even smaller, and I’m glad I wore a hoodie that swallows me a little in its bulk. I feel like a kid standing next to his dad.

“Hi!” He beams at me, clearly delighted (and maybe a little surprised) that I showed up, and he claps one hand down on my back. I brace for it with just enough time to spare, and don’t go collapsing onto my knees. “How many miles do you feel up for?”

“Uh…” I usually go about three or so, but honestly, I’m not sure how well someone as big as Reiner will run. He’s obviously got me outclassed in the beef on the hoof department, but that doesn’t mean he’s a good runner. He’s too huge to be a good runner, and I don’t want to embarrass him. “Why don’t you set the pace and the distance? I’ll let you know if I start getting burnt out.”

“Sounds good.” He takes his hand off my shoulders, bends low to touch the ground in an enviable forward fold, and bounces back up, his eyes bright and twinkling. “Let’s go!”

He takes off, and I fall in step beside him, confident this burst of speed won’t last long.

~*~

We’re halfway around the park before I realize that Reiner isn’t just showing off with a quick sprint at the beginning of our slog. No, this is his jogging pace, and it’s churning up the ground faster than I thought possible. I grit my teeth, buckle down, and try to lengthen my stride. I am _not_ going to admit that he’s a better runner than I am!

~*~

Oh sweet god in heaven, he’s a better runner than I am, oh god oh god, I had no idea this was going to be an actual marathon, I’m dying, tell my mom I love her and Marco that I really, really wish I could’ve had a chance to suck him off at least once…

~*~

Reiner doesn’t slow down until we’ve run five miles at his bruising pace, and even then, I think it’s more out of kindness to me than because he’s actually done. I’m done. I was done two miles back, and it’s only through extreme self-control that I manage to not face-plant on the ground and curl up into a whimpering ball. I should know by now that when it comes to all things physical, the yoga crowd is better than me. I should just accept this as my fate in life.

“Ah!” Reiner bounces on the tips of his toes, and I realize for the first time, as I sink down onto a park bench—no seat has ever been so comfortable, no throne as welcome, as this splintery, graffiti-carved park bench—that he’s wearing a pair of those ridiculous toe shoes, the kind that have a separate part of the shoe for each toe and zero support on the sole. He just ran that basically barefoot, and looks like he could keep going. I’m wearing a pair of two hundred dollar running shoes, and I’m ready to drop. I keep thinking I’m in decent shape, and I keep being proven wrong. “That was great! Thanks for joining me!”

I manage to lift one hand in a feeble wave. At least I’m not sucking air like an asthmatic grandma, but it’s a near thing. “My pleasure. Good run.”

Reiner smiles, and there’s something knowing in it, like he knows exactly how wiped he just made me, and exactly what I’d been thinking about him right before he cleaned the floor with me. He doesn’t say anything, though, and instead sits down beside me, stretching his legs out in front of him and looping his arms behind the park bench. “We’ll stretch in a couple minutes. I kind of want to just enjoy the moment right now.”

Enjoy the moment? I almost snort in derision, what kind of New Age hipster mumbo jumbo is this, but I pause. I glance at Reiner from the corner of my eye, and he seems completely serious about being in the moment, gazing out at the park with lazy, half-lidded eyes, and after a moment, I try it too.

It feels stupid at first—all I can pay attention to is my galloping heart, my lungs that are still struggling to draw enough air. But those things slowly even out, and I start to pay attention to what’s going on around me. I notice the sounds first: the birds in the trees, singing happily and calling to each other; distant traffic, moving smoothly, not yet snarled up and jammed; someone laughing across the park, the sound bright and carrying. Then the other people in the park start to filter into my vision; moms with jogging strollers patrolling the perimeter, huffing and puffing in ways that garner my sympathy; a municipal worker, wearing a neon orange vest and working the flowerbeds; a young woman on a nearby bench, reading from a thick novel and drinking coffee. Finally, the light catches my attention, how it’s soft and warm and slowly gaining strength, and my right hand twitches, as though it’s a few steps ahead of my brain and has decided it wants to capture all of this. When _was_ the last time I just sat in the park and drew until my hand ached? I can’t remember, and that suddenly seems like a tiny tragedy.

Out of the corner of my vision, I see what looks like a gangly cow gamboling across the park, and it’s only its leash dragging in the grass behind it that tells me it’s not a thin cow but an enormous dog. Reiner stands up in one smooth, controlled motion and whistles, the sound deafeningly loud from this close range. “C’mon, boy! C’mere!”

The animal turns, its tongue lolling out its mouth, and charges over, bearing down on us like a freight train at full speed. Reiner drops to one knee in a practiced motion that can only mean he played football in high school—of course he did, how could he not?—and spreads both arms wide. The dog collides with him full force, and Reiner lets it tip him over, laughing uproariously as it covers his face with big, sloppy kisses.

I discreetly move my legs out of the way. It’s not that I don’t like dogs, but I’m not too familiar with them and ones this big and boisterous make me nervous.

“Titan! Titan, you bad dog!” A tiny blonde woman runs over, and it’s like a goddess descending from the heavens to grace us mere mortals. I can’t help but stare a little, taking in her huge blue eyes and golden hair that catches the sun just right. I feel like maybe Persephone gave Hades the slip and decided to take Cerebus for a walk in the park. “Thank you, Reiner, I was afraid I was going to have to run him down!”

Reiner sits up, and the dog sprawls across his lap, rolling over and exposing his belly. Reiner immediately cooperates and starts scratching it, making the dog’s tail thump wildly against the sidewalk. “No problem, Historia. Titan was just feeling his oats, weren’t you boy? Yes, you were!”

Oh god. He’s doing the dog baby-talk voice. This is hilarious. The dog seems to like it, though, and smiles up at Reiner, wriggling with joy over the scratches.

“I couldn’t find his harness this morning, so I used his collar and leash instead. Bad choice on my part.” The woman—Historia—picks up the dog’s leash, then starts fumbling in her fanny pack for something. “Come now, Titan, you’re going to get your fur all over Dr. Zacharius.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it. Part of my job description, after all.” The dog obediently gets off Reiner and starts sniffing at his owner’s hands, and she pulls a treat out of her bag. Standing next to her, the dog’s shoulder reaches to her waist, and it looks like he could lick her face with very little effort. As the dog scoffs it down, she seems to notice me for the first time.

“Oh! I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself.” She offers me a hand, and I shake it delicately, afraid that I’ll break it if I squeeze too hard. “I’m Historia Reiss, and this beast is Titan.”

“Jean Kirschstein. Nice to… hey!” Titan chooses that exact moment to shove his nose into my crotch, and I have to defend myself against wet noses and the surprisingly large teeth that I know lurk in that muzzle.

“Titan! No!” Reiner’s voice is an authoritative boom, powerful enough to make me snap to attention, and the dog’s haunches immediately hit the ground. He’s suddenly a model dog, sitting straight and perfect, and Reiner sighs and scruffs his ears, making them flop back and forth on the sides of his head. “See you two at obedience training this week?”

“Yes, of course.” Historia is flushing a little, embarrassed by her dog’s behavior, and tugs on his leash. Titan stands up and trots to her side, an upright citizen, and she flips a little wave our way as they set off. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Kirschstein. My apologies for my dog.”

“No harm done!” I call after her, but she and Titan are already trotting away. Reiner flops back down onto the bench beside me as I watch them go, and when I turn my attention back to him, he’s grinning crookedly at me.

“Cute, isn’t she?” he asks, and I glance down at my hands, embarrassed that he just caught me checking out her ass.

“Yeah. She’s cute. Nice dog, too.” Deflect, deflect, talk about the dog!

Reiner snorts. “Titan’s a brat. She’s been working with him, though… you should have seen what a monster he was when they first got him.”

“Mmmm.” Frankly, Titan had been more than enough for me to handle, and I choose not to think about what he must have been like before. “They?”

“Yeah.” I can hear the amusement in his voice, the bastard. “Historia and her wife. They’ve been together for just about forever now. You should meet Ymir, you’d like her.”

“Probably.” I lean down to fiddle with my shoelace, and Reiner slaps his hand down on my back. He probably means it to be reassuring, but he just knocks the wind out of me.

“Don’t look so down! Historia doesn’t seem like your type, anyway.”

I sit up straight and try to pin him with the most withering glare I can muster. “What do you know about my type?”

Reiner is completely unaffected by my Glare of Death, and just grins at me. “Never mind, it’s not important.” He looks like he wants to say more, but then his phone chirps, and he digs it out of the strap holding it to his arm. After opening it and checking what’s inside, his face lights up, and I’m struck all over again with the urge to draw him. Whatever he sees makes him look about ten years younger, like he’s a teenager again, and I have a feeling I know what it’s going to be before he turns his phone around and shows me.

I’m surprised; it’s a picture of a pot on a stove, filled with vegetables and crumbled up white stuff and some kind of stock, bubbling away. It looks delicious, whatever it is, and I swear I can almost smell it through the phone.

“Bertolt’s up,” Reiner informs me, and pulls his phone back, cradling it before him and smiling down at it in a way that’s so tender it makes my heart clench in my chest. I wasn’t entirely right about what the picture was going to be, but I was pretty damn close. “He’s making lunch. Want to come over and join us?”

I hesitate; if anyone else in my life made that offer, I’d know they didn’t really mean it and turn them down politely. They’d try and convince me half-heartedly, I’d say no again, and our social obligations would be fulfilled. With Reiner, though, I think he actually means it, and that confuses me a lot more than it should. “Will that be okay with Bertolt?”

“Sure.” Reiner is busy texting on his phone, his thumbs flying across the screen, and not paying me much attention. “He always makes enough food to feed an army, just in case one is passing by.”

Probably because with two guys as big as Reiner and Bertolt in the house, cooking for a passing army might ensure there are actual leftovers, but I keep that ungenerous opinion to myself. “If you’re sure he won’t mind…” That soup does look fucking delicious, and my fridge back home doesn’t have much inside beyond a half-empty jar of mustard and a few random bottles of microbrews.

“He likes having people over.” I doubt that very much, but I’m not going to question it. Reiner leaps to his feet, hauling me up by one arm. Before I have a chance to protest or squirm away, he’s got his arm around my neck, hauling me close, and is holding out his phone at an arm’s length. “Say cheese!” 

I manage to get half a smile on my face before the phone flashes at us and Reiner lets me go. He looks at the selfie, and it apparently passes muster, because he beams at me and starts leading me towards the subway. “C’mon, we’re just a few stops down.”

~*~

Reiner’s apartment is in one of the shadier areas of town, and while I try to not be That Guy, I stick a little closer to him than normal as we’re walking down the street after our subway ride. It’s not that it’s a bad neighborhood, exactly, but it’s poor, the part of town where a lot of recent immigrants live, and I’ve rarely been here. Even then, usually just to drive through.

If Reiner notices, he doesn’t say anything, and decides, halfway to his place, to link his arm through mine. It’s a little odd, making me feel like I’m a lady being escorted somewhere by a gentleman—a gentleman wearing running shorts and toe shoes, but a gentleman nonetheless. It seems like being touchy feely is just Reiner’s thing, and he’s so damn nice and unabashed about it that it’s hard to be bothered.

“I hope you like dogs.” He glances down at me out of the corner of his eye, a knowing little smile tickling the corner of his mouth. “Because Brutus is going to want to say hi.”

“Brutus?” Heaven help me, Reiner has a dog named Brutus, and I’m picturing something that’s more bear than dog, massive and hulking and furry, with breath that smells like the rotting souls of all Reiner’s enemies.

“Yeah, Brutus. I found her at the same shelter where Marco got his cats.”

“Wait, _her_? Why is she named Brutus?”

Reiner playfully nudges me in the side with his elbow. “Hey, don’t name shame! Brutus can be a girl dog’s name too!”

“Sure, I guess, but a name like Brutus gives certain masculine connotations, you know?”

He laughs at that. “You’ll have to meet her and then give me your opinion on if it’s a good name or not.”

I’m going to die. I’m going to be trampled by an enormous female dog named Brutus, and it’s best that I just make peace with the world and this fact.

Reiner leads me down a short alley, fishing a key out of the same strap that holds his phone. “It’s not much, but it’s home,” he tells me as he unlocks a ground level door, and I cower manfully behind him as he throws the door open and drops to his knees again, bellowing “HONEY, I’M HOME!” into the apartment.

I brace myself as I hear a flurry of scratching sounds, nails on a floor, emerge from the apartment. I can see it in my mind, the beastly hellhound named Brutus, soon to reveal herself, snorting fire from one nostril and ice from the other, eyes glowing red and fangs wet with saliva, only able to be contained by someone as big and strong as Reiner. The scratching turns into footfalls, a tattoo pattern of paws the size of manhole covers, and although the barking that precedes her entrance sounds distinctly high-pitched and tiny, I chalk it up the apartment’s acoustics. I cringe behind Reiner, and wonder how far away I could run before the beast caught up with me.

Something that looks like a mop head come to life charges into the entryway and flings itself at Reiner. He catches it in his arms and stands up, booming with laughter, and for a minute, I think that he’s caught a sentient dust bunny and is going to offer it as sacrifice to the mammoth predator that’s surely on her way. But then the dust bunny barks and wiggles in his arms, and I realize that this, this living mop head, this dust bunny with legs, is Brutus.

I’m still reeling from this revelation when the dog notices me, and she looks over Reiner’s shoulder with beady, curious eyes, her little nose twitching frantically as she tries to get a read on me. She perks her ears up and swivels them towards me, tilting her head, and okay, she’s pretty damn cute, which I’ll be able to appreciate more once my heart stops pounding.

“ _That’s_ Brutus?”

“Sure is.” Reiner looks over his shoulder at me, and he’s grinning. “Were you expecting something different?”

He did it on purpose, the bastard. I take in a deep breath, fully ready to go on a tirade, but it comes out as a laugh instead of yelling, and I offer my hand to Brutus to sniff. She does, dutifully taking me in, and then licks my fingers with her little pink tongue. “Yeah. Are you sure you and Historia didn’t switch dogs on accident?”

He laughs too, clearly delighted. “You’re not the first person to say that.”

“I thought he’d bring home a dog like Titan, too.”

We both turn towards that soft voice, and Bertolt is standing in the hallway, looking shy and only half-awake, wearing a pair of sweatpants that puddle around his bare feet and an old, worn football jersey that I would bet good money says ZACHARIUS across the back. He has his head ducked down, his dark hair falling messily into his face, and he’s holding a wooden spoon in one hand, his other hand swallowed by an oven mitt with dancing jalapeño peppers on it. Reiner brightens like he’s just seen the sun after months of winter, and closes the distance between them in a few long steps, stretching up to plant a big, smacking kiss on Bertolt.

Or he tries to, at least; Bertolt fends him off with the spoon. “How many dogs licked you today?”

“Just two.” Brutus punctuates that claim by stretching up and licking Reiner’s chin.

Bertolt sighs, but it’s a good-natured one, and he gently but firmly pushes Reiner back with the spoon. “Go wash your face first, Romeo.” He looks up for the first time and lifts his free hand to wave at me, a tiny smile lingering at the corners of his mouth. “Hi, Jean.”

“Hey.” Just when I thought things couldn’t get any cuter, Reiner wraps one arm around Bertolt’s waist and squeezes him, Brutus yapping happily between them, and then Reiner trots off, taking the dog with him. Bertolt watches him go, and there’s such a look of longing and deep, complicated affection on his face that he probably doesn’t even realize is there. Then he turns back to me, and the transformation is instant, happening in the space of a heartbeat, as he switches back to the hesitant, soft-spoken guy I remember.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, looking down and fiddling with his spoon.

“A little bit, yeah.” The scent of something amazing has finally filtered through the air to me, and I breathe in through my nose, filling my head with it. I might say I’m only a little hungry, but as soon as I smell that, I’m ravenous, saliva flooding my mouth and my stomach growling loudly.

Bertolt hears the growling, and he looks at me directly for the first time, and I swear he looks pleased with himself, like the sounds of me getting all excited for his food are a big compliment. Which, realistically, they probably are. “You can come into the kitchen, if you want. Lunch will be ready in a few minutes.”

“Thanks.” I toe off my shoes, leaving them near the door, and pad after Bertolt as he leads the way deeper into the apartment.

I’m trying not to be judgmental, I’m really not, but Bertolt and Reiner’s apartment is tiny and poorly lit, cramped, almost exactly the opposite of mine. I catch a glimpse of a living room, the shades drawn tightly closed, stuffed with a big couch and books, dark shapes looming in the shadows. The hallway is narrow, the carpet worn, and I wonder how two guys who are so big manage in such a small space.

Then we come into the kitchen, and I realize what a dick I’m being.

The kitchen is warm and bright, morning sunshine streaming in through the window over the sink, which is decorated with a pair of white, crocheted curtains and a windowsill that’s positively overflowing with plants. The cupboards are painted a cheerful yellow, a color I have a sneaking suspicion Reiner picked out, and everything is spotlessly clean, the chrome of the sink gleaming and the floor a polished white. Mismatched magnets decorate the refrigerator, including some of those poetry ones, and I’m itching to see what kinds of poems these two leave for each other.

As I watch, Bertolt goes to the plants and clips a few leaves off one, tossing the leaves into the pot simmering on the stove. He’s moving with more confidence than I’ve ever seen in him, and I realize that I’m seeing him in his element for the first time. A kitchen is where he belongs.

“You can sit down,” he tells me, and I settle myself in at the kitchen table, wooden and scarred, the surface discolored by what looks like Easter egg dye. “Do you want coffee or anything?”

“Uh, water? But I can…” My offer to get it myself dies on my lips as Bertolt moves to the sink, taking a glass out of a cupboard and filling it at the sink, running the water through the Britta water filter attached to the nozzle. He sets it in front of me and is back to the stove in mere moments, and I’m a little dazzled by the change in him. “Thanks.”

He nods, already bent low over the pot, and I’m right, that jersey definitely says ZACHARIUS across the shoulders. “Do you mind if the stew is a little spicy? I’m trying Cajun spices in it.”

“No, spicy is fine.” Cajun definitely catches my interest, and I lean onto my elbows, holding my water glass in both hands. “How long have you been a chef?”

Bertolt’s shoulders tense unexpectedly, and I realize I’ve said something wrong. “I’m not a chef.”

“But you could be.” Reiner strolls back into the kitchen, changed into a pair of sweatpants and a clean shirt, Brutus trotting at his heels. He makes a beeline for Bertolt, wrapping his arms around him from behind and hugging him affectionately. “Bertolt could be a great chef, and someday he probably will be.”

“I don’t have the education for it,” Bertolt protests.

“So someday you’ll get it.” Reiner kisses the back of Bertolt’s neck, and that must be some kind of signal I don’t recognize, because Bertolt visibly relaxes in his arms, leaning back against his partner’s chest and placing one arm over Reiner’s at his waist. “Someday you’ll go back to school and learn everything you need to know, and be the most amazing chef ever.”

I can’t hear what Bertolt says in return, and I look away, suddenly embarrassed at seeing such a different side of them, something so obviously meant to be private. Fortunately, Brutus has come over to sniff at my socks, and I reach down to pet her. Little dogs like this aren’t so bad, and after giving my fingers a desultory sniff, she licks my ankle.

“Wait until you try this stew!” I look up, and Reiner is setting the table, placing a bowl and spoon in front of me. Bertolt is bent back over the stove, fussing with his stew, and Reiner sits down across from me. “Bertl’s been experimenting with Cajun spices recently, and he’ll blow your socks off with this gumbo.” He drops a wink at me. “And then Brutus will probably steal your sock, so I hope you didn’t wear a pair you really want back today.”

I chuckle and shake my head. “She can have my sock if she really wants it.”

Reiner laughs, and the sound fills the small space, making the apartment feel like a real home instead of a dingy little ground floor. “Watch out, or she’ll take you up on that. She hordes socks like dragon hordes gold.”

“It’s a real pain in the winter,” Bertolt offers, still facing the stove, not looking up at us.

“I know all her hiding spots, though. On laundry day, I get everything else ready, then go check the sock spots.” Reiner prattles on, telling stories about his dog and her sock stealing ways, and said dog lays down on my foot; I can feel her heartbeat on my toes, fluttering like a bird’s wings. After a few moments, Bertolt leaves the stove and moves around the table, ladling up a stew that wafts fragrant, mouth-watering steam into my face. As he serves Reiner, Reiner doesn’t stop talking, deep in the midst of a story, but he reaches out and lays a hand on the small of Bertolt’s back, a simple, quick touch, so practiced I’m not sure he even realizes he’s doing it. Once everyone is served, Bertolt takes the pot back to the stove, but not before whispering the tips of his fingers over the breadth of Reiner’s shoulders.

Reiner waits until Bertolt comes back, bringing a loaf of bread fresh from the oven with him, and then abruptly pauses in his storytelling. “Do you want to pray or anything?”

It takes me a second to realize he’s asking me. “Huh? Uh, no, we don’t have to. But if you guys wants to…?”

Reiner laughs while Bertolt looks at his bowl and shakes his head. “Nope, just wanted to make sure you didn’t want to. So dig in!”

He immediately picks up a spoon with one hand and a chunk of bread—still steaming from the oven, be still my heart—and goes after the stew like he hasn’t seen food in weeks. Bertolt is a little more dignified, but he takes the time to smile at Reiner and minutely shake his head again, and I realize that if these two have any religion at all, it’s each other.

Reiner moans, his eyes rolling back in his head, a little stream of stew juice dribbling out of the corner of his mouth. “Oh _god_ , Bertolt, when are you going to marry me?”

Bertolt ducks his head, which I’m starting to learn he does whenever something embarrasses him, but he sounds indulgent and pleased when he answers. “You’re just saying that because you like the stew.”

I don’t think that, but I know enough to keep my mouth shut. Bertolt strikes me as the type who would shut down completely if he was pushed on anything, so I bring a spoonful of stew to my mouth and taste it. I’m expecting great things, based purely on Reiner’s reaction, but even I’m surprised by the explosion of flavors in my mouth. The stew is literally perfect, a perfect blend of spice and seasoning, with a smooth texture and an interesting crunch when I find some vegetables. I’ve eaten half the bowl before I know it, and I sit back, a little embarrassed at my enthusiasm.

“This is phenomenal, Bertolt.”

He blushes and looks away. “Thank you.”

“Oh sure, you’ll take his compliments but not mine.” Reiner is already finished and back at the stove, spooning up a second helping, Brutus sitting at his feet and waiting patiently for a scrap.

“I hear yours all the time.” I think that’s about the closest to sassy Bertolt is capable of getting.

“Maybe I’ll stop giving them then.” Reiner leans in as he comes back and kisses the side of Bertolt’s head, and I’m sure the compliments aren’t going to stop any time soon. Bertolt doesn't seem too worried either, and passes Reiner another piece of bread.

The rest of the meal passes in companionable silence, broken only by the sounds of eating and Brutus’ polite panting near our ankles. I’m scraping the bottom of my second bowl with my spoon before I realize that the stew is vegetarian, and that is no mean feat; the Kirschteins love our meat, and getting me to eat a full meal without missing it is impressive in its own right.

Reiner, who finished before either of us, is watching when I realize that, and pipes up. “We try to eat vegetarian as much as we can.” He shrugs. “It wasn’t a very easy transition, but Marco managed to talk us into it, and it’s definitely a lot healthier.”

 _Marco_. I put my spoon down, trying to not seem too eager, and lean my elbows on the table. Yes please, let’s talk about Marco, that sounds like an excellent idea. If they’ve known him long enough to be persuaded into vegetarianism by him, they must be close; maybe they can shed some light on why all my best game is just not working on him. “Have you guys known each other long?”

Reiner leans back and crosses his arms over his chest, looking content and happy, maybe ready for a nap and then a football game on TV. “Bertl and I have known each other since high school, or were you asking about us and Marco?”

Look at that smug grin. Reiner _knows_ , and I decide to swallow my pride and just admit it. “You guys and Marco.”

Reiner exchanges a knowing look with Bertolt. “We met him about three years ago, when I got back from the service.”

“Did you meet at the yoga classes?”

“No.” Reiner shakes his head, and Bertolt reaches out wordlessly and puts a hand on Reiner’s elbow. “He was working for a group that helps veterans integrate back into society, and I met him there. Turns out that we knew each other in kindergarten, before his family moved away.” Reiner cracks a smile, and Bertolt takes his hand back. “He took one of my guinea pig’s babies and gave it a home before he left.”

“Oh.” I feel like I’ve stumbled into a field of potential landmines here, and I need to tread carefully. “He mentioned he’s going to school for counseling.”

“He’ll be really good at it.” Reiner nods decisively. “It’s a great career choice for him.”

“He could be a yoga teacher forever,” Bertolt adds quietly, reaching under the table to pet Brutus. “But he’ll be good at whatever he does.”

So Marco clearly has the seal of approval from these two. That’s both reassuring and terrifying, because if they like him so much, then they probably talk to him a lot, and I don’t know if I’ve won their approval yet. I think I have, but I can’t be entirely sure, and anxiety twists in my stomach. 

“You said you got Brutus at the same shelter as Marco’s cats?” They clearly love their dog, that has to be a safe topic of conversation.

That was a good move; Reiner perks right back up at the mention of his dog. “Yeah, we did. Well, _I_ did. Marco was going there to get a kitten to foster, and I went with him.” He shrugs, chuckling to himself. “Should’ve known I would have come home with a dog.”

“I knew you would.” Bertolt smiles at him. “I went out and got a dog bed as soon as you left.”

“Yeah, you called it.” Reiner reaches out and takes Bertolt’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “So I come home, carrying a box with Brutus in it, expecting a huge fight, and Bertolt already has this dog bed set up in the living room and a food bowl in the kitchen.” He starts laughing. “Except the bowl was big enough for Brutus to sleep in, and the bed was sized for a dog Titan’s size!”

“I figured you’d pick out something big.”

“So did I, but then I saw this pathetic little rat, all shivering in the back of her cage, with a red sticker on her name plate.” He glances at me, his expression growing somber for a moment. “A red sticker means they’re going to be euthanized the next day.” His brow smoothes out and he gets boisterous again. “And that was it, I was a done man. I made a beeline for her cage, dragging Marco behind me, and didn’t put her down until the papers were signed and we were leaving.”

“They asked him who his vet was and he showed them his business card,” Bertolt tells me. “Now he does their spay/neuter clinics for free twice a month.”

“All’s well that ends well. It’s good publicity for the practice, and I can make a tax write-off for it every year.” Reiner reaches under the table and scoops up Brutus, settling her on his lap. She looks up at him with adoring eyes, her nose twitching as she takes in all the smells, and turns around twice and settles down for a nap.

He lapses into a comfortable silence, one fraught with sweet memories, and Bertolt doesn’t say anything either, just sits and holds Reiner’s hand and smiles at him, looking at his partner with just as much adoration as their dog. I suddenly wish I had my pencils and some paper with me, that I could sketch this and capture such a homey scene.

“How do you foster a kitten?” I need to break the silence, or I really will ask for a piece of paper and a pencil, and probably end up embarrassing all of us. “I’ve heard of foster kids, but never foster cats.”

It happens fast, so quick that if I hadn’t been looking at their hands, I wouldn’t have noticed at all. But I’m studying the way they’ve interlaced their fingers, trying to figure out how I’d transcribe it to a page, and I see Bertolt abruptly clamp down on Reiner’s fingers, squeezing so hard that the veins and tendons pop out on the back of his hand. Reiner’s reaction is almost as swift: he flips his hand around so he’s cradling Bertolt’s in his, and wraps his fingers around Bertolt’s palm, folding Bertolt’s hand into a loose fist and curling his around it. I’m baffled; what the fuck just happened? 

I’m fully expecting to get kicked out or chewed out, but Reiner’s voice is mild when he answers. “Kittens who need a little extra boost, for whatever reason. Sometimes they’ve been orphaned, or are from a really big litter, or just need socialization. Volunteers take them home and take care of them until they’re big enough to go back to the shelter and be adopted.” The whole time, he kneads Bertolt’s hand in his own, and Bertolt slowly opens his fingers, holding Reiner’s hand back by the time he’s done explaining foster kittens.

“Marco does that?” I sound uncertain, even to my own ears, afraid of evoking another reaction, but nothing happens. They both nod, and a fragile peace descends on the kitchen again.

“Yeah, he’s always got one foster or another in his place. He says he’d do dogs, but he just doesn’t have the room for one.” Reiner fishes in his hoodie pocket for his phone, pulling it out one-handedly so he doesn’t have to let go of Bertolt. “He’s got one now, actually. It’s almost ready to be adopted.”

“Really?” A temporary madness grips me, and I lean further across the table, my eyes on Reiner’s phone. “You know, I’ve been thinking about getting a cat.”

“You have?” Bertolt probably has no idea how doubtful he sounds, and if I hadn’t done something to upset him thirty seconds ago, he’d get the scowling of a lifetime.

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about it.” Nonchalant, Kirschtein, play it cool. “Do you think he’d adopt it out to me?”

Reiner shrugs, a little glimmer in his eye and around the edges of his smile. “Maybe. Do you want his number to call and ask him about it?”

YES. Yes, I want Marco’s number, give it to me NOW! I swallow, forcing myself to play it cool and ignore the knowing way Reiner is grinning at me. “If you don’t think he’d mind…”

“Nah, he won’t care.” Reiner’s thumb flies across the surface of his phone, and mine pings in my pocket a few seconds later, letting me know I’ve just received a text. “There you go. I imagine he’ll be happy to hear from you.”

Later, I’ll dissect that comment, probably with Hitch and a couple cartons of Ben & Jerry’s, but for now, I’m pulling out my phone and locking that number into its memory. “Thanks, Reiner. I’ll get in touch with him about it soon.” Like, as soon as I’m gone from here, which I’m suddenly itching to do.

“My pleasure.” Reiner definitely sounds smug about this, and I realize that I’ve probably been underestimating his intelligence this whole time. It’s easy, when someone looks as bulky and captain of the football team dumb as he does, to think they’re stupid, but he’s clearly not. It almost feels like I’m part of some dumb matchmaking rom-com right now.

Not that I’m complaining, of course. Not if it ends with me getting to kiss Marco.

“Reiner,” Bertolt interrupts softly, “we’re supposed to go see your family this afternoon, remember?”

Oh god, he’s in on it too! I can’t say I’m not grateful, and I stand up fast enough to wake up Brutus, who pops her head over the table to stare at me. “That’s cool, I’ll be on my way then. Thanks so much for lunch, it was really good.”

“Thank you.” Bertolt looks pleased by that, and stands up himself, letting go of Reiner’s hand and moving to the stove. “Let me give you some to take home, so you can have it for lunch tomorrow.”

“Make sure to wash and return that Tupperware, Jean,” Reiner warns. “Or Bertolt’ll track you down and take it out of your hide.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew... a really long chapter this time! I couldn't find a good place to break it up, though, so you get it in its full, almost 7000 words glory.
> 
> Unfortunately, because this chapter was so long, I blew through all of my buffer. I'm also traveling next week, so I'll be taking a break from updating next Monday. See you all in two weeks!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean calls in reinforcements.

Back in my apartment, I stash the Tupperware in the fridge—now the mustard and beer has some company, although I get the feeling they’re going to ostracize the stew for containing actual nourishment—and head directly to the bathroom. Even with the cooler fall air, I got pretty sweaty during that run, and I can smell myself. It’s… unpleasant. Bertolt and Reiner must be immune to man-stink to have not noticed it, or maybe they were just being polite.

As I stand under the shower’s spray, letting the hot water cascade over me and wash away any tightness in my muscles, I start thinking about the new number in my phone. It’s thrilling, knowing that all I have to do is push a few buttons and have Marco on the other line, thrilling in a way making a phone call hasn’t been since I was in middle school. I’m on the phone all the damn time at work, and using them to communicate has long since lost its luster and appeal. But I’m excited about this call all the same, and I find myself smiling as I shampoo my hair.

Once I’m clean and clothed in a pair of comfortable sweatpants and a long-sleeved t-shirt, I head back out to the living room. I collapse onto the couch and push the drawings from last night aside. No getting distracted now, now is time for business. I’m a man on a mission, I need to call Marco and talk to him about this cat, which I apparently now want. How does one go about adopting a cat, anyway? Do you have to go and see if the cat likes you first? What if the cat doesn’t like you? What if the cat hates everyone? What if it scratches? I know there’s an operation to get their claws taken out, but that sounds painful and like kind of an asshole move. Maybe I should ask Reiner about it first.

“You’re procrastinating, Kirschstein,” I tell myself, and the sound of my voice in my empty apartment echoes, bouncing back at me from all corners, and I flinch. I normally enjoy having my own space, my own little kingdom, but something about the way my voice sounds without anyone answering bothers me in a way it usually doesn’t. It makes things sound abandoned, like my home is a shell waiting to be filled, and I sigh. Reiner and Bertolt’s kitchen had been so warm, so inviting, that my place feels barren by comparison. Their place had been a home, not just a place to live, and it’s glaringly obvious that’s what my apartment is: it’s a place to live, a place to sleep and eat, and not much else.

I pick up my phone and glare at it for a moment, silently accusing it of being the source of all my misery, and call Hitch.

Her phone rings and rings before going to voicemail. She’s changed it again, and I listen to her laugh and burble through a greeting, something recorded recently because she mentions being away for the weekend, something about going up into the mountains with her “new best girl.” Sounds like things are going well for her and Annie, and I hang up without leaving a message. She wouldn’t answer it for a few days anyway, and I don’t want to bring her down with my moping and anxiety.

Could I talk to Reiner about this? He gives off big-brother vibes in the best way possible, but I did just spend all day with him, and we don’t know each other that well. I don’t know what side of this he’s falling on, if he’d even _want_ to help me with my Marco issues, so he’s out.

I scroll through the contacts in my phone, running my gaze over various names and then dismissing them. It’s pretty depressing to know so many people and have so few I can actually talk to; with Hitch off the radar that leaves my mom, who I am _not_ going to talk to about this, and one other person.

I check my widgets, seeing what time it is out in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. It’s early, but he’s always been an early riser, and odds are he’s up. I set my phone aside and grab my laptop, propping it open on my knees and turning on Skype. As it pings through its setup, I watch his name, noticing that he’s changed it again to something extra ridiculous, and I quickly change mine from the very professional, respectable **J.Kirschtein** to **Horse Everywhere It Counts**. Not my best attempt, but I don’t have time to think of anything better.

I watch the little bubble by his name avidly, and breathe a sigh of relief when it turns green. I click on his name and type a quick message.

**Horse Everywhere It Counts: hey loser u up?**

I wait, and it’s almost embarrassing how relieved I am when I see the little blinking ellipses that tell me he’s typing a response.

**Jaegerbomb IN YO FACE: new phone who dis**

**Horse Everywhere It Counts: u kno who i am**

**Jaegerbomb IN YO FACE: maybe y  
Jaegerbomb IN YO FACE: maybe n**

**Jaegerbomb IN YO FACE: 2 early 4 horse shit**

I grin; as angry as he makes me sometimes, he also usually knows how to make me smile, and our antagonistic back and forth has been a part of my life for so long that it’s a comforting, soothing dance at this point. I quickly change my username to something else.

**Kirschbomb: look now we match**

**Jaegerbomb IN YO FACE: u liar u haven’t had ur cherry in a long ass time**

I laugh out loud at that.

**Kirschbomb: u jealous?**

**Jaegerbomb IN YO FACE: no!**

**Jaegerbomb IN YO FACE: y would i want ur gross cherry?**

**Kirschbomb: b/c u love me?**

**Jaegerbomb IN YO FACE: lies**

**Jaegerbomb IN YO FACE: i hate u u kno that**

**Jaegerbomb IN YO FACE: ur my enemy**

As soon as he finishes typing that, the line starts ringing, and I’m smiling as I accept. The connection between my apartment and his boat somewhere in the middle of the ocean is scratchy and weak, barely connecting at all, but after a few moments he springs to life on my screen, grainy and glitching, hardly moving at all, but he’s smiling hugely, his eyes bright and sparkling, and his voice comes through loud and clear.

“What’s up, Horseface?”

“Not much, idiot.” Old nicknames, things we’ve called each other since the sandbox, and I slump deeper into my couch, letting the warmth of my oldest friendship wrap around me, even as he’s thousands of miles away. “How’re things out in the great blue yonder?”

“Fucking _amazing_! We’ve been tracking this pod of whales, this _big ass_ pod, and they’ve got about _seven_ generations all living together, and…” I listen with half an ear as he chatters on, concentrating more on the tone of his voice than his words, on the flash of his white teeth in his darkly tanned face when he smiles, on the way his green eyes light up as he talks about his work. Eren has always loved his job, has always been filled with passion for what he does, so much so that he never notices when he starts using technical science jargon that I don’t understand. It’s okay, I’m used to it by now, and I just sit and listen, comforted by his solidity, the way he never changes.

Eren chatters for about half an hour, and I make appropriate sounds, nodding and smiling as he talks. He knows I don’t understand most of what he’s saying—something about ocean currents and whale migratory patterns—but this is part of our relationship. I learned a long time ago to just let Eren talk and get whatever he has to say out of his system, and once that’s done, he’ll turn his attention to me.

“… and then we chased off that whaling ship, and they ran like the little bitches they are,” he concludes, nodding decisively. “They knew they were in international waters and that we could’ve made life really miserable for them if we got the authorities involved.” He shrugs his shoulders and swipes his hair off his forehead with one hand; it gets long when he’s out on the water, and he never remembers to cut it, so it hangs in his face and almost to his shoulders. “Next time I’m going to harpoon them.”

“You’re not going to harpoon anyone.” 

“Jean,” Eren’s eyes go wide, and he grows suddenly serious, “they were trying to kill calves.”

“Oh.” Calves are baby whales, I’m pretty sure, and one of Eren’s pet projects. “In that case, harpoon the shit out of them.”

He nods again. “I knew you’d see it my way.”

There’s a short lull in the conversation, with Eren looking thoughtfully off at something I can’t see, toying with the skeleton key he always wears around his neck. It’s on a braided hemp chain at the moment, but I’ve seen that key dangle from expensive gold chains and pieces of string one of us found in a pocket. It’s as much a part of Eren as the green of his eyes and the shagginess of his hair, and he’d look completely naked without it. His dad gave it to him when he graduated high school, telling him with a voice weak and raspy from chemo, that it was the key to his future, and he should always remember how much his dad loved him. Dr. Jaeger died a few weeks later, and that key hasn’t left Eren’s neck since.

“So,” he says, drawing me out of my own reminiscence. “What’s going on with you?”

“Well…” I scrub my hand over the back of my neck, suddenly shy, which is stupid, since Eren knows me better than anyone else. “There’s this guy…”

He hoots shrilly, deafeningly, and I wince and pull an earbud out of my ear. “Jesus christ, Jaeger!”

“Sorry, sorry.” He’s grinning though, his smile as wide as one of the sea creatures he loves so much, and leans forward, close to the camera on his computer. “You nailed him yet?”

“No.”

“Sucked him off?”

“No.”

Eren raises both eyebrows in disbelief. “Even _kissed_ him?”

I groan and flop my head back, staring up at the ceiling. “Noooooo.”

“What the fuck, Kirschtein?” Eren looks genuinely perplexed, his eyebrows lifted so high they’re hidden by his hair. “Did you lose all your game?”

“I don’t know! I don’t think so!” I lift my head and look back at him, ignoring my own face in the computer screen and how distressed I look. “He’s just… he’s _different_.”

“Different how?” Eren props his chin in his hand and looks at me quizzically. “I mean, does he even like guys?”

I glance down at my keyboard, notice my hands are clenched in fists and force them open, force them to relax. “I don’t know. Like… maybe?”

Eren whistles, long and low. “Tell me about him.”

So I do. I tell him all about Marco, about the yoga class, and the smoothie almost-date, and how I gave him a ride home. I tell him about Reiner, and Bertolt, and Annie and Hitch, and tell him about the things Reiner told me during our run and at his apartment. I don’t try to color my language, but I don’t hide anything either. The only thing I don’t tell, the only thing I _can’t_ tell him, is how I’m drawing again. That feels too ethereal, too fragile, like it will all go away if I mention it, if anyone else knows.

By the time I’m done, I’m breathless and thirsty, and the look on Eren’s face—equal parts sympathy and concern—is a little much to take. “Well?” I demand, reverting to the aggression we usually use when we’re talking to each other. “What’m I doing wrong?”

Eren blinks, and answers slowly. “You really like him, don’t you, Jean?”

It’s the use of my actual name, the _Jean_ where it’s almost always _Kirschtein_ that catches my attention, and I deflate, sagging weakly into the couch. “Yeah,” I admit, looking everywhere but at the computer screen and at Eren. “Yeah, I really do.”

“I can tell. You haven’t been this gaga in a long time.” Eren shifts as the boat he’s on rocks, tucking his legs underneath himself. “I haven’t seen you mope like this since you were after my sister.”

Ah, Eren’s sister. Beautiful Mikasa. The one that got away, and that made out with Hitch instead of me. I sigh a little, then roll my eyes. “Ancient history. How’s she doing, anyway?”

“Real good. She’s working crazy hours, but she likes it. Recently busted a pretty high profile case, too, which is good publicity for the non-profit.”

“Yeah, I read about that on Buzzfeed. Good for her.”

Eren rolls his eyes at me, but he’s smiling. “Figures you’d only hear about it if it was on Buzzfeed.”

“Hey! Buzzfeed is a legitimate news source!”

“No.” Eren holds up one finger and wags it back and forth, a gesture he picked up from his mom. “No, I know what you’re doing. You’re not changing the subject.”

Dammit, he’s on to me. I groan and look at his grainy face on the computer screen, pointedly ignoring the little box that shows my own and how desperate I look. “What should I do?”

Eren thinks about that for a minute, props his chin on his hand and really thinks, and I’m grateful that we somehow managed to move from rubbing sand in each other’s hair and then crying to the teacher about it to this. I might’ve screwed some things up in my life, but as much as I’d never admit it out loud, especially not to him, being Eren’s friend is definitely not one of them.

“Well,” he starts slowly, and I sit up a little, giving him my full attention. “Have you considered that he might just not be that into you?”

I nod. “Yeah, I’ve thought about it. But that doesn’t explain all the touching and how he almost kissed me and stuff, you know?”

“I guess. But Jean,” there it is again, the use of my first name, “you’ve been fooled by that before.”

I wince; yeah, I know, I’ve been tricked before, wanting something so badly that I saw things that weren’t there. Eren knows that better than anyone. “I have to _try_ , though. What if I’m not wrong?”

“If you are, he probably won’t want to be your friend anymore. You okay with risking that?”

I open my mouth to respond, then close it with a snap. Am I okay with risking that? If I alienate Marco, that would mean losing Reiner, Bertolt, and Annie too; I’m the new guy, the interloper, and if I come on too strong to their friend who’s not into it, they’ll cut me out. And dammit, I _like_ those guys, even Annie with her chill and monotone, and if things work out with her and Hitch, I’ll be seeing a lot more of her regardless.

Eren watches me while I think, and when I take too long, he interrupts. “You’re not, are you?”

“No.” My shoulders slump forward in defeat. “I’m not.”

“Then you need to let him make the first move, if a move is going to happen at all. If it doesn’t, then you’ve got some cool new friends to introduce me to the next time I’m in town.”

“But I don’t want to wait!” I whine plaintively; if you can’t whine like a child to your best friend who’s known you since you were a child, who can you possibly whine to? “You don’t understand how hot he is!”

Eren laughs at that, his eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. “So you’ll have to beat off more than usual. You’ve had a lot of practice with that, don’t deny it.”

That’s the other problem with having a friend who knew you during the awkward teenage years: they know stuff like _that_. I scowl, but I can’t deny the truth of what he’s saying. “So I guess I’m dating Rosy Palm again.”

“And her five sisters, don’t forget.”

“Yeah, them too.”

Eren opens his mouth to say something else, but before he can, the door to his cabin bursts open and a tiny, whirling dervish of reddish brown hair and smudged glasses comes bounding in. “Eren! Who’re you talking to! Did you tell them about the currents?”

Eren yelps and scoots to the side, and a new face fills my computer screen. “Hi, Dr. Hange. Yes, he told me about the currents. Really interesting stuff.”

“Jean!” The doctor’s face lights up, and she tilts her head to one side. “We haven’t seen you lately! Been too busy to call? Have you worked on that logo for us any more?”

Only Hange would be bold enough to request some pro-bono label design, and persistent enough to actually get me to agree to work on it. “I’ve been working on it, yeah. I’ll send you some proofs later this week.” After I actually start, and have something to show for it.

“Excellent! Publicity is important, you know!” She doesn’t wait for an answer, turning on Eren instead. “Moblit almost done making breakfast, and we’ve got chatter on the radios! The pods are moving! Say goodbye to Jean and come eat your breakfast!” And just like that, she’s gone, exploding out of the room as quickly as she came in, leaving the door swinging ajar behind her.

Eren sighs, and readjusts the computer so I can see him again. “We don’t really have a lot of privacy on the boat.”

“I guess not.” I’d rather not have this conversation end, but it sounds like Eren needs to start his day, and I know if I keep him Dr. Hange will just barge back in. “Go eat your breakfast, man. Thanks for talking to me about this.”

“No problem. Just wish I could’ve helped more.” Eren hesitates, fiddling with his key again, then starts speaking again, talking fast, all in a rush. “You’re going to find someone, you know? You’re going to find someone who’ll love you and make you happy, and it’s going to be great. I _know_ you’re going to find that someday.”

I blink, surprised and more than a little touched by that outburst. If someone who’s known me for as long as Eren has, and has seen me at my absolute worst, believes that, then it gives me some hope that it might be true.

Of course, I can’t tell him that, so I roll my eyes. “Gaaaaaaaaaaay…”

Eren snorts, but he’s grinning. “You just wish I was gay for your scrawny ass, Kirschtein.”

“You can’t handle my ass, Jaeger, everyone knows that. Go eat and play with whales, I’ll talk to you later.”

“Yeah, later. Let me know how this all shakes down, okay?”

“Okay. Have a good one.”

“You too!” A blurp from Skype and he’s gone, and it’s only my own face staring back at me from my computer screen.

Let him make the first move. Don’t push things. Be okay with it if nothing happens. For a guy with zero interest in sex and relationships, Eren gives pretty good advice. Maybe it’s all that time he’s spent observing and not trying to get into everyone’s pants. Maybe if I hadn’t developed a keen and insatiable interest in having sex with anyone and everyone when I was twelve, I’d have been able to figure that stuff out on my own.

I console myself with the knowledge of all the orgasms I’ve had that Eren hasn’t (even if he’s not interested in orgasms, they still count!), and set my computer aside, snagging my phone off the table. I scroll through my contacts, noticing with amusement that Reiner added Bertolt and Annie as well, until I find Marco’s. And I pause, my thumb hovering over the little phone icon, hit by the kind of nerves I haven’t had since I was in middle school and the thought of calling someone I had a crush on was new and frightening and exciting all at once. I don’t know how Marco has done it, but he’s managed to push me back in time, to make me a blithering, dopey little preteen again, and as annoying as it is, it’s kind of refreshing to feel excitement like this again.

“You’re asking about a cat,” I say out loud, my voice echoing in my empty apartment. “The worst he can do is say no.”

And before I can chicken out, I push the icon and slam the phone to my ear.

It rings. It rings and rings, and I’m afraid he’s not going to pick up and I’ll have to leave a voicemail, when I hear a click, the sound of Marco clearing his throat, and then a guarded, cautious “Hello?”

“Hi, Marco? It’s Jean. You know, from yoga?”  “Jean!” The fretful, uncertain tone in his voice disappears, and all the warmth I’m used to floods back. God, he has a beautiful voice, and I could listen to it say my name forever. “Hi!”

“Hi. Uh, Reiner gave me your number, it’s okay that I called, right?”

“Sure, it’s fine.” I can practically hear the smile in his voice, and if I close my eyes, I can see it spread across his face. “I figured you probably got it from him.”

“Yeah, we went for a run this morning.”

“I know, I saw the picture on Facebook.”

“You did?” Fascinating. For some reason, I haven’t tried to stalk Marco on Facebook yet; this is a grievous oversight, and I blame my late-night art attack. As soon as I’m off the phone, I’m going for it. 

“Yeah. It’s cute, looks like Reiner caught you by surprise.”

Did he just say he thinks I’m cute? I’m pretty sure he just said he thinks I’m cute, and my dick _definitely_ wants to believe that he just called me cute. I’m glad this is over the phone and not in person, because I can feel my cheeks heating up in a pleasant, warming flush. “He did. I wasn’t expecting a hug when we were both so sweaty.”

“Nothing stops one of Reiner’s hugs when he decides he wants to give one.” Marco laughs knowingly, and I picture him shaking his head, his bangs brushing back and forth over his forehead, and as intelligent as I know Eren’s advice is, it’s going to be so, so hard to wait on this. “So what’s going on?”

“Uh, Reiner said you’re fostering a kitten?”

“Yeah!” His voice brightens up even more, practically radiating sunshine through the phone line. “She’s about six weeks now, and getting into that stage where she’s into everything and driving my other cats crazy.”

Other cats… how many does he have? Another thing to figure out with Facebook. “So, when you foster a kitten, you don’t keep it, right?”

“Oh no, I’m just taking care of her until she’s old enough to get fixed, and then the shelter will find her a forever home.” His voice has taken on a faint tone of optimism. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, I was thinking about getting a kitten, and you have one, so I thought maybe…”

“Would you be interested in adopting her?” Oh god help me, he sounds so excited, and while I didn’t really want a cat before, it sounds like I’m going to be stuck with one soon. “Oh Jean, that’d be great, little Parvati has had some challenges already and getting put into a permanent home so quickly would be really good for her!”

Parvati. He named the kitten Parvati. “Uh, do you think I could meet her? See if we hit it off and everything?” I’m pretty sure you have to hit it off with cats, they’re not like dogs and not as easily bribed.

“Sure, that’d be fine. I, uh…” There’s some rustling sounds from the other end of the line, like he’s shifting through some papers. “I have to teach tomorrow, but my last class ends around four. Want to meet at the studio and then head to my place?”

“Yeah!” God, Kirchstein, rein it in, you sound like the completely desperate, thirsty bastard that you are. I clear my throat and try again. “Yeah, that sounds good, if that works for you.”

“Excellent!” He’s doing that beaming thing again, and my right hand is itching, eager to try and capture that inner light on paper. “I’ll see you tomorrow, fourish?”

“Sounds good.” Sound fucking fantastic, but I don’t want to come on too strong. “See you then.”

“Great! Bye!” And he’s gone, and I’m left staring at my phone, a stupid, soppy grin spreading across my face and I don’t even care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I'm back! And holy god, this chapter actually has Marco in it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Facebook and Marco!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now featuring art by the glorious [Johanna the Mad](http://johannathemad.tumblr.com)! Go and check out her tumblr and then give her all the money for commissions, it's well, well worth it!

I sit, staring at my phone with a dumb grin on my face, for a lot longer than I’d like to admit. Is tomorrow a date? It sort of feels like a date, but I’m really only going over there to meet his cat. Maybe I can persuade him to have dinner with me too? We could even order take-out, and eat it in his apartment, and I could do the old yawn-and-stretch to get my arm around him, and…

Aaaaaand if I’m going to get anything else done today, I need to stop that line of thought right now. My cock is already deciding that no, that’s an excellent line of thought, that’s one we should explore, with great detail and possibly some visual references from the Internet. In fact, it even has some suggestions about what we should watch, remembering a video I watched last week featuring a tall, tan hunk with freckles on his shoulders and a huge schlong and…

Okay. Okay, _no_.

With a sigh and a comment muttered on my breath about maturity and _not_ spending all day beating off just because I _can_ , I set my phone aside and retrieve my computer. Marco said the picture of Reiner and I is on Facebook, so I don’t feel the least bit creepy about Facebook stalking. This is a research mission, I’m checking to see that my image isn’t being used in a way I don’t find appropriate!

As soon as I open the webpage, I see that I have new notifications. It’s not surprising in the least to see **DR. REINER ZACHARIUS** pop up as a new friend request, but I’m pleased and a little touched when **Bertolt H.** is right behind it, and then, glory of glories, **Marco Bott** as well. I approve all three requests, and since we’re all friends now, I have to go and investigate their pages.

I’m going to be mature about this, though. I’m going to look at the pages in ascending level of interest, because if I don’t, I’m going to spend the whole time looking at Marco’s. I know myself, I know that’s exactly what would happen.

“So Bertolt it is, then,” and I open his page.

It’s a quiet, understated page, about what I’d expect. I try not to judge other people on their graphic design choices—I really, really try, but it’s so hard when so many of those choices are so, so bad—but Bertolt’s page isn’t half bad. I can tell he does some artistic work himself, because he’s chosen muted, neutral tones for his page, which make the pictures he posts—mostly of his cake creations, with their white frosting—really pop. There are very few pictures of Bertolt himself on the page, although I do find one of Brutus and a couple of Reiner, and he looks nervous and out of sorts in his profile picture, where he’s wearing a chef’s coat and hat. I get the sense that he uses Facebook more for his professional ventures, and keeps his personal life out of it. Which is fine, but makes for much less interesting stalking.

I take the time to Like a few of his more recent cake pictures—Reiner wasn’t kidding, they really are impressive and artistic, especially for cakes—and send him a private message asking if he does work for big corporations. The firm will be having a holiday party in a few months, and the last baker we hired had been a disappointment.

If Bertolt’s page is neutral, tasteful, and quietly impersonal, Reiner’s is an explosion of color, text, and sounds. His color choices are, frankly, completely hideous, but somehow also work, in a really strange way. They _fit_ , and there’s no better way to describe it. I actually take a snap of his page with my phone, to bring into work later and show some of the other designers. Reiner uses his Facebook as a moment-to-moment update about his day, and I’m not surprised that the picture of the two of us has gotten pushed down by a couple of text posts, about what he had for lunch and how he and Bertolt are going to the Farmer’s Market later this afternoon.

I look at the picture he posted of the two of us; it’s pretty clear he caught me by surprise, with how I’m only half-smiling and looking more startled than happy about the situation, but I’m starting to smile, at least, and Reiner’s huge, shit-eating grin more than makes up for it. This is clearly a man who takes a lot of selfies, and he knows exactly how to position his face and arm to get the best shot. I see he’s tagged me in it, and that there’s quite the conversation going on. When I notice Marco’s name in the conversation, I click to expand so fast I almost break my wrist.

Reiner labeled the picture **going on a run with a new friend** , and I lean so far forward my nose is almost touching the computer screen as I read the conversation underneath.

**Marco Bott: cute! looks like you guys had fun!**

**DR. REINER ZACHARIUS: we did! he’s a good runner, kept up with me the whole way!**

That’s… overly generous, but okay, I’ll take the compliment.

**Marco Bott: he did? wow! I can’t do that lol :)**

**DR. REINER ZACHARIUS: you should come with us next time ;)**

Excuse you, Mr. Zacharius? What is with that flirty little wink?

**Marco Bott: lol maybe. you know that running messes with my forward folds**

**Bertolt H: He had lunch with us too. He met Brutus.**

**Marco Bott: did Brutus like him?**

**DR. REINER ZACHARIUS: Brutus loved him! ;) ;) ;)**

Again with the winks! The conversation dies out after that, much to my disappointment, and I decide to add my own two cents to the conversation.

**Jean Kirschtein: it’s true, bitches can’t get enough of me**

Almost as soon as I post it, I get a response, like someone had been sitting at a computer and _waiting_.

**Hitch Dreyse: LOL FALSE!!!**

**Jean Kirschtein: thanks, Hitch >:( love you too**

Damn Hitch, thinking that just because she’s getting some she can cockblock other people. I open Facebook’s messenger, getting ready to send her a seething diatribe of indignation, when someone else comments on the picture.

**Marco Bott: come on, you two, don’t fight :(**

Saved by the Bott. I close the messenger and respond to Marco instead.

**Jean Kirschtein: okay okay, truce**

**Marco Bott: thank you Jean :)**

He’s going to kill me with those smileys. He’s going to keep sending them, and I will be dead. They’re just so outdated and adorable, like someone’s dad trying to be hip to the kids these days, but it really seems like he’s sending them sincerely, which makes it cute instead of laughable. And he sent one to me! God, how did I reach the position where a smiley on Facebook is worth more to me than an evening of raunchy sexting?

Okay, that’s enough self-deprivation. I’m going for gold, I’m going to go look at Marco’s page now, I’m going to satisfy the raging curiosity building up behind my eyes.

A quick click and I’m there.

The first thing that hits me is he’s got some godawful, hippy mandala type pattern going on in the background, and it’s eye-searing. I’m all for bright colors (in moderation), but holy shit, this is some serious red, yellow, and orange action going on, and while it’s not as cringe-worthy as Reiner’s, it’s still pretty bad. I half wonder if Reiner’s the one who taught Marco how to set this up, and Marco chose a background that looked like his friend’s.

Beyond the atrocious color choices, it looks like he mostly posts stuff about yoga, including pictures of himself that are positively mouthwatering, and I only feel slightly creepy about saving some of them onto my hard drive. Hey, they’re reference photos, so I can draw him better! There’s nothing weird or creepy about needing reference photos! He also has a bunch of pictures of cats, and after some perusal, I determine that he seems to own an orange one the size of a small tank and one that looks like it got spattered with orange, black, and white paint. He posts lots of pictures of the cats, including some selfies where he’s got one or both of them cuddled under his chin, and I’ve never been so jealous of a damn cat before.

As I comb deeper into his timeline, going back first weeks and then months, a picture starts to develop of who Marco is, and it’s even better than I thought. Better and worse at the same time, because how on earth am I good enough for someone who volunteers and teaches yoga at an inner city elementary school, someone who works sometimes (with Bertolt, I notice) at a local soup kitchen, someone who does all this and still finds time to do schoolwork and pursue his degree? I’m a spoiled fucking brat compared to him, and I have no idea what, if anything, he’d even see in me.

It might be a moot point, because a few months back, I find a picture of Marco with a tall, older blond guy. They’re dressed formally, wearing suits and ties, and while Marco is smiling at whoever took the picture, the blond guy is watching it with a cool, even gaze, like he’s thinking about how difficult it would be to launch forward and break someone’s neck. Even with the mildly worrying facial expression, there’s no denying that the guy is handsome as hell, chill and Teutonic and with the kind of gaze that pierces right through you, even through the computer screen. He looks incredibly intense, and unfortunately, the description Marco gives under the picture ( _Erwin took me to one of his work functions! so fancy!_ ) doesn’t tell me much about him, except that he’s the kind of guy who wears suits to work.

“Who are you, Erwin?” I mutter, but without a last name, I have no way to stalk him further. Marco doesn’t have any other pictures of him either, which just leaves me at a dead end. A dead end that reeks of a possible sugar daddy, and I don’t like it.

“Maybe _that’s_ what’s going on,” I announce to the empty room. “Maybe Marco has a sugar daddy.” A really hot one, at that, and I glower in disgust as I close my computer and slouch to the kitchen. I’m going to moodily eat the rest of that stew and watch trash tv all night, and tomorrow I’ll go meet the kitten and maybe figure out what’s going on.

Stupid gorgeous blond sugar daddy.

~*~

I wake up early, after a crap night of sleep, and drag myself out to the kitchen. Once some caffeine is flowing through my veins, I’ll feel better. Right now, my back is killing me and the backs of my legs are tight as hell from my run yesterday, and I cannot handle the world until I’ve had coffee.

Two full, darkly wicked cups later, and I can face life. I spend my morning browsing Facebook (Reiner and Bertolt go to an early brunch; Hitch and Annie are back from camping; my mom wants me to come home for dinner sometime this week) and sketching a design for Hange. It takes me a few tries, but while I’m between serious attempts, I doodle a little comic of Eren riding a shark and punching a boat with harpoons mounted on the sides. I don’t know why, but I like it, and start fleshing it out. Before I know it, I’ve fallen through the hole in the paper and come out with a slick, stylized design that I’m proud of, my back is crying bloody murder, my right hand is cramping, and I’m almost late to go meet Marco.

“Shit!” I cannot— _cannot_ —go meet Marco wearing plaid pajama pants and a Captain America t-shirt. I scramble to my bedroom, sending pens and loose sheets of paper scattering, and stare frantically at my closet. I’d had an outfit planned out—one of the things I tossed and turned over last night—but now I’m completely at a loss. What does one wear when they’re going to meet a kitten, and also trying to suss out if the person they’re going with is into them or just a really nice guy? I have no clue. And I have no time to mull it over.

“Shit!” Okay, skinny jeans. Skinny jeans are always a good choice, and I know they make my legs look good. As I’m tugging on a pair and doing the ridiculous I’m-putting-on-skinny-jeans-but-I-don’t-want-to-sit-down-to-do-it dance, my gaze falls on the discarded concert t-shirts I’d pushed to the side before going to yoga a couple days ago. _Perfect_. But which one will Marco like? I don’t even have time to call Hitch and confirm my choice!

Florence & the Machine. Can’t go wrong with Florence. I tug the shirt on, smoothing it over my ribs, and grab my beat-up leather bomber from its hook over my door. The jacket is old and worn smooth, a classic, and it used to be my dad’s. I don’t like admitting it, but wearing his jacket always reminds me of him, and makes me feel braver than I would normally. And god knows I need Dad’s strength today.

As an afterthought, as I’m running out the door, I grab a scarf and wrap it around my neck. The scarf is cut in a triangle, perfect for all your hipstery needs, and it has fringe along the edges. Cats like dangling strings, right? I seem to recall that they like thread and yarn and shit. Maybe the cat will want to play with my scarf, and then it’ll like me, which will make Marco like me. Flawless plan.

Adelaide starts on the first try, as always, and I hurry to the studio. When I’m at a red light, I notice that it’s another beautiful fall day, where the light is soft and golden and shining through the backs of the changing leaves. And here I spent it all inside, drawing sharks.

I park in the lot behind the studio, and sit in Adelaide for a few moments, trying to get my breathing under control. It sounds like I’m the one that just charged through traffic, not her, and I laugh a little at myself. “Kirschtein, you’re a wreck.” I haven’t remember the last time I was this wound up about a date, especially a date that isn’t really a date, and I wonder, for the thousandth time, what’s with this strange hold that Marco has over me. I’ve never wanted to impress someone as badly as I want to impress him—the only one that even comes close is Mikasa, and that had, with hindsight, being tinged with a lot more desperation than I care to admit to now—and never had so little idea about _how_ to impress him. If he were someone from work, or someone in my usual circle, I’d know how; I’d turn on the charm, schmooze a little, invite him to dinner at some fancy place, make out a little in the parking garage, and then take him home. Easy. But I know, in the same way that I know my eyes are pale brown and that my skin burns easily in the summer, that that wouldn’t work. I know he wants something different, something I’m unfamiliar with, and I don’t know what that is, or how to figure it out. And I _want_ to figure it out. The more I get to know him, the more I want him, and it’s a deep, atavistic longing, one so strong it’s almost a little frightening.

I exhale loudly and push myself out of the car. Who knows, I could go into his apartment and find out he’s into weird shit and be completely turned off. Maybe he’s a real weirdo in his free time. Maybe he’s vegan. Maybe he’s _a furry_.

Despite my best efforts, I’m about five minutes late, and I’m totally uncool as I burst through the door to the studio, panting after my brief run that was totally not a sprint across the parking lot, suddenly afraid that I’ve missed him.

But no, he’s standing at the front desk, leaning over it and talking to the girl managing the counter, and I notice, for the first time, that he has a tattoo on his left calf, something big that snakes up underneath his cropped yoga pants, and that surprises me more than it should. He really doesn’t seem the tattoo type, and I’m suddenly wildly curious to know if he has any other ones.

The little bell above the door rings as I enter, and they both turn to see who it is, and I might be mistaken, but it looked like Marco’s brow had been lifted in expectation, like he was really hoping someone specific was going to walk through that door. Then he sees me, and it’s like watching the sun break through the clouds, like the first day of spring after a long winter, and oh god, I’ll still want him even if he is a furry. Even if he’s a furry vegan.

“Jean!” He straightens up and takes a few steps towards me, beaming like he’s been waiting to see me for weeks instead of a couple of days, and it’s a good thing the door is so close, because my knees decide right then and there that they’re going to go weak. It’s the run from yesterday. Yeah, that’s what it is; it’s definitely isn’t the way he’s smiling at me, in a way that’s brand new and intimately familiar all at once.

“Hey.” I try to smile back at him, but I’m dazzled, completely overwhelmed by his presence, and I have no idea what kind of contorted expression I’m actually making. It probably looks like I’m in pain.

That doesn’t deter Marco; he gets close, close enough that I can smell the masculine, clean sweat scent of him, and reaches both hands towards me. Without thinking, I lift my own hands and catch his, and then we’re standing there, face to face, holding each other’s hands at chest height, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I tilt my head back, just a little, like I’m waiting for a kiss. And I’d swear that he leans forward a little, looking like he’s going to close the distance and kiss me, and I feel my eyelids flutter like they’re going to close, and I’ll be damned if my left foot doesn’t suddenly feel lighter, like it wants to elevate like a damn Disney princess.

The woman at the desk clears her throat. _Pointedly_ clears her throat.

And the spell is broken. Marco lets go of my hands and looks over his shoulder, back at her, and I clear my throat, violently rearranging my mouth so it’s no longer all pouty and waiting for a kiss.

“Uh, have you met Jean, Petra?” It might be my imagination, but Marco sounds slightly embarrassed, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t, and I swear I see a faint blush on his cheekbone, there and then gone.

“He paid me the last time he came in.” Petra stands up behind the counter and regards me. Her expression is serious but her eyes are twinkling, and I don’t know if she just saved me or cockblocked me. “Nice to see you again, Jean. Are you going to start being a regular here?”

I open my mouth to answer, but Marco beats me to it. “He’s come to two classes! He’s already showing an improvement!” He puts his hand on my shoulder and leaves it there, and that is okay. That is one hundred percent fine if he wants to leave that there the rest of the day, and I toy with the idea of reaching up and taking his hand before deciding against it. That’s a little too couple-y, and I remember what Eren said: let him make the first move.

“I think so, yeah,” I tell Petra, and she nods solemnly before breaking into a wide, mischievous grin.

“That happens with a lot of the students who take Marco’s classes. I think it has something to do with that cute tush of his, don’t you?”

“Petra!” Marco squawks, and while he’s preoccupied gaping at her, I nod slightly and shoot her a clandestine thumbs up. Yes, it is a very, very cute tush indeed, and she bursts into laughter at my gestures, and I decide I like her.

“I’m sorry, Marco,” she tells him, although it’s hard to take her apology seriously when it slips out between peals of bell-like laughter. “I’m sure it’s because you’re such a good teacher, really! Having a cute tush just adds that extra little spark, you know?”

“ _No_ ,” he grouses, and glances over his shoulder, looking down at his own ass as if to ascertain its cuteness, and I wish I could tell him that it’s A+, positively off the charts, best butt in the class, but that would be way too forward. Instead, I grin at Petra and wave one hand at her as I take Marco’s arm and gently lead him out the door. She waves back, a pert, flippy little wave, and then the door closes and she’s gone.

“Sorry about that,” Marco tells me, lifting his free hand to rub one finger under his nose. He doesn’t seem to mind that I’ve got his arm, so I just keep hold of it, steering us in the direction of his apartment. “Petra’s a little… lively.”

“She seems pretty cool.” Really, she seems pretty awesome, but it’s too soon to pass judgment. “Have you two worked together long?”

“She owns the studio.” Marco has calmed down now, standing straight and walking with purpose, and I reluctantly let go of his arm. He knows the way to his place better than I do, after all, and there’s no point in me trying to lead. “She’s the one who hired me two years ago.”

“She owns the place?” That’s a surprise. “She looks so young.”

Marco chuckles, and glances at me out of the side of his eye. “Make sure to tell her that the next time you pay; you’ll probably get a discount. But yeah, it’s hers. Her husband is a little older than her, so he helped her bankroll it. It’s been paid off and completely hers for awhile now, though.”

“Good for her. It’s a great space.”

“Isn’t it?” Marco smiles at me for a moment, then abruptly changes the subject. “It’s just a ten minute walk to my place; do you want to leave your car here?”

“That’d be fine, yeah.” I appreciate how he’s made sure I don’t have to say it: Adelaide is my baby and I’ll feel better about leaving her in a yoga studio parking lot than in a part of town I don’t know. She has alarms and everything, but still.

“Okay. The lot has cameras and everything, so she’ll be fine.” 

“Great.” That’s actually a huge relief, and I shoot him a sidelong smile. “How were your classes today?”

“Good!” He starts bubbling and enthusing about his classes, and I listen with half an ear, just enjoying the sound of his voice and being close to him. Our strides match each other neatly, and it’s not hard to keep pace with him as we move down the leaf-strewn street.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, when my stomach decides to interrupt a lull in his story with a loud growl.

“Uh…” I put a hand over my abdomen, and realize that yeah, I’m actually starving. I haven’t had anything to eat today, just coffee, and that feels like it’s catching up with me all at once. “Now that you mention it… are there any good places around here?”

“I’ve got just the thing.” Marco takes off a brisk clip, and I have to run a couple steps to catch up to him. “You don’t have any allergies, right?” he asks as he leads me down a side street that smells tantalizingly of fresh baked bread and something nutty.

I shake my head. “Nah. And I’ll eat just about anything.” A slight exaggeration, but not too far off.

Marco nods, and pushes open the door to a little restaurant that I never would have noticed. The scent of fresh bread and delicious food pours out at us, along with a billow of warm air, and I’m already salivating as we step inside.

“Marcoooooooo!” the man behind the counter calls, his voice heavily accented and his face split into a grin, and immediately launches into a rapid fire diatribe in another language, one that sounds completely unfamiliar. Even more surprising, Marco answers back, using the same language, pronouncing his words carefully but cleanly, and the man nods happily. He sees me then, lingering behind Marco, and waves. I wave back, and he and Marco talk a little more before the man disappears into the back of the little restaurant.

“It’ll take about ten minutes,” Marco tells me, and shows me a pair of lawn chairs by the window, clearly put there for people waiting for their food. “I hope you like Afghani food.”

“Yeah, it’s great.” In all honesty, I’m not too familiar with it, but right now, I’ll eat just about anything. “What language were you guys speaking?”

“Dari.” Marco leans back in the chair and closes his eyes. “Ahmad and his family are from Afghanistan.”

“Oh.” I stay silent for a moment, pondering this new information, but really, it just leads to more questions. “Is your family Middle Eastern?” Marco has darker skin than me and black hair, but I'm a pretty basic white boy so that doesn't mean anything. I kind of figured he was from somewhere in the Mediterranean, but I could be wrong. Maybe it’s a few generations back?

He opens one eye to look at me, and his brow is drawn down reproachfully. “First of all, Afghanistan is a South Asian country, not Middle Eastern, and they really don't look like people from the Gulf at all." He lifts his brow after his little lecture and smiles, and I don't feel too bad about my mistake. It sounds like he's had this conversation before, and hey, I just learned something new. "And don’t ever let my mother hear you say that, or she’ll curse you out in Italian before telling you you’re too thin and need to eat more.”

I laugh, and feel my chest get all warm and tingly at the suggestion that I’ll meet Marco’s mother someday. I’d like that; I’m great at charming mothers. “So where’d you learn?”

“In the service. I spent two years and a half years in Afghanistan.”

“Ah.” And suddenly, I feel like I’ve wandered into another minefield. I don’t know a lot about the military, but I do know that most terms aren’t measured in six month increments. Something must have happened over there to cut Marco’s time short, and while I desperately want to know what it was, I also don’t want to ask, afraid of stirring up bad memories. Marco closes his eye and leans back again, and so I sit and wait, watching him out of the corner of my eye, studying the line of his profile and the way his freckles are scattered on his skin. I’ve been drawing his nose wrong.

“Here is your food, boys.” The man explodes out from the back, waving two large sacks of food and speaking in accented but perfectly understandable English. 

We both stand up, and Marco reaches for his wallet. I grab his wrist, folding my fingers around it, trying not to get distracted by how sturdy and warm it feels under my hand. “Hey, no, let me get it.”

He looks down at my wrist, and gently shakes me off. “You bought the smoothies, I can get this.”

“Big discount for my favorite Marco,” Ahmad says helpfully from behind the counter, watching us with amusement.

Marco apparently doesn’t like that and switches back to Dari, rattling something off at Ahmad, who answers in the same guttural tones, then they both laugh. Marco reaches out and shakes his hand while paying with the other one, and then we’re off, pushing out the door. “Goodbye, boys! Come again!” Ahmad calls after us as we exit onto the street.

Marco hands me one of the bags, and as I take it, I get a good, solid whiff of whatever’s inside, and it smells heavenly. I bring the bag up to my face and sniff it, and I can’t help the little moan that slips out of my mouth. “Oh _god_ , what did you order?”

Marco doesn’t answer right away, and when I look over at him, his eyes are wide and his mouth is hanging open a little. As I watch, he licks his lips and then gives himself a little shake, suddenly animating and coming back to life. “We’re only a few minutes away, you’ll find out soon,” he tells me, and takes off down the street, walking faster than before, and I hurry to catch up. What was that? It looked like he phased out for a minute there, like I’d done something that caught his attention, that distracted him. But what? What did I do?

It takes me a minute, but when I do figure it out, I have to duck my face down into my collar to hide my smile. My food moan! Oh god, he heard my food moan and it did something to him! Curse Marco’s long peacoat, _curse it_ , he’s even wearing yoga pants, which would be perfect for a boner check! I hope that’s what it was, at least. That would be pretty amazing if it were.

“What’re you all smiley about?”

Oh damn, I’ve been found out! “Nothing.” I straighten up, but I know I’m still smiling. “Just having fun right now, that’s all.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and I worry that I’ve oversold it, that I just sounded like an idiot, until he answers, his voice soft and almost shy. “I’m having fun too.” I feel his fingers slide along the cuff of my jacket sleeve, as light as a bird’s feathers, and I have to consciously force myself not to take his hand, to wait and see if he takes mine. His fingers linger a little too long for it to be just casual, and then he drops his hand back to his side and the moment is gone. “We’re almost there. I hope you’re ready to meet a kitten!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it glaringly obvious that I have no idea how Facebook actually works?
> 
> Did I mention that [Johanna the Mad](http://johannathemad.tumblr.com) did the artwork for this page? Have you gone to check her out on Tumblr? She's amazing and draws the best Jeanmarcos, go check her out if you don't know her already!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now featuring 300% more cats!

There are three flights of stairs to Marco’s apartment, and it’s a little embarrassing how quickly I get out of breath. I can at least partially blame that on the fact that Marco is walking in front of me, and that tush that Petra commented on is very, very distracting. It’s a real struggle to not cop a quick feel, especially with all the lush, perfectly rounded rump in front of me, but I am strong and resist, instead filing away what I see for the spank bank later. If it looks that good climbing stairs, I can only imagine how nice it looks naked.

Marco doesn’t comment on how I’m panting when we reach his floor, although he does shoot me a quick, sidelong smile, like he’s noticed how I sound like a fish out of water but is too polite to point it out, and he leads me down a narrow, dark hallway. He hands me the second bag of food as he fishes for his keys. “I’m going to need both hands free in a minute,” he says mysteriously, and unlocks his door, which, I notice, has a little blue and white pendant hanging from the peephole. It’s an evil eye, like they have in Turkey, and I’m about to ask about it when he opens the door and calls “ _Kitty kitty kitties!_ ” in that uniquely ear-shattering pitch that all cat lovers seem to be able to make.

He flips on a light just in time for me to see a streak of orange and black bolting towards us, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I take a step back and bring my arms up near my chest in defense. Just in time too, as the tiny rocket achieves liftoff and vaults off the floor, sailing towards Marco’s chest with a whine like a SCUD missile zeroing in on its target. I almost hit the floor, nearly grabbing Marco’s shoulders and dragging him down with me, anything to protect him from the tiny cyclone come to life.

Marco casually steps in front of me and scoops the demon out of the air, letting it bounce off his chest and catching it in his arms. A moment later, I hear a loud rumbling, something that’s almost like a growl but not quite, and Marco is making sweet little cooing sounds to the thing in his arms.

“Aaaaaw, did you miss me, baby? I know, I know you get lonely, it’s okay, I’m home now…”

I peek over Marco’s shoulder, fully prepared and expecting to take a step back at any moment (and probably ignominiously fleeing down the hallway), and see that he’s holding a cat in his arms. The cat is wiggling and fiercely butting its head under his chin, interspersing its rumbling sounds with little sounds that are almost like the noise a stream makes, only more shrill. Marco keeps talking to the beast, not seeming to mind at all that it’s trying to batter him to death with its head, and even _kisses_ it on the top of its head, and now I’m jealous of a cat.

Once the monster is calm and laying limp in Marco’s arm while still half-growling, he turns and looks back at me, his eyes bright and twinkling. “Come in and close the door so the other two don’t get out!”

I quickly step in behind him and close the door, ignoring the fear in the pit of my stomach over now being trapped with these beasts. The orange and black one—who, I now notice has white on its chin and belly—seems sated for now, its eyes half-closed and an expression of pleasure on its face, but who knows what kind of other aggressions the others have planned?

With the door closed, Marco relaxes a little, and opens his arms a little, so I can get a better look at the beast sprawled there, lounging like it hasn’t a care in the world. “This little jumper is Aisha. Aisha, this is Jean.” 

The cat opens one green eye and peers at me before deciding I need to know my place and rubbing the side of her face on Marco’s chest. Stupid showoff lucky fucking cat.

“Hi, Aisha, nice to meet you,” I say stupidly, unsure on how to introduce myself to a cat. Marco makes no sign of trying to hand her to me, thank god, so we can just eye each other from a safe distance.

That’s apparently the right response, though, because Marco grins and turns back around, looking down the hallway. “Here comes Loaf.”

I look past him, and sure enough, another cat is making its way towards us. This one is orange and fat, its face sleepy and a little grumpy, and I already like it better than Fancypants Jumper Aisha. Its steps are slow and ponderous, and it stops at Marco’s feet and looks up at him, its mouth opening in a silent meow.

Marco glances back at me, and he’s all smiles. “You wouldn’t think it to look at him, but he’s hungry and letting me know.”

I laugh a little, glad that I don’t have to pretend that I haven’t noticed how fat his cat is. “Don’t blame the man for liking to eat, Marco, that’s rude.”

The cat seems to agree with me, and rubs his head on Marco’s leg. Marco bends to scratch behind Loaf’s ear, Aisha cradled in one arm, and I get a full access view of his ass, so everyone is happy.

It’s then that I feel it: something faint and light brushing past my ankle, almost like a tiny, warm little cloud moved past me. I look down, and there’s a black little puff moving around my ankles, a puff that’s a quarter the size of Aisha and a fraction the size of Loaf. The puff looks up, one piercing blue eye staring up at me, and a tiny pink mouth opens, exposing a spiky tongue as the kitten makes a mewling sound so quiet I can barely hear it.

I’m not the type of person to fall for animals. We didn’t keep them in the house when I was a kid, and most of my friends had dogs instead of cats. Even then, I wasn’t the type to fawn over puppies or foals or whatever. They’re just babies, and that’s never been impressive to me. But damn, the sight of that little kitten, rubbing its slight body against my ankle, makes something in my chest jog, and I carefully set the bags of food aside and crouch down. The kitten tenses, like it wants to run away, but then I’m closer to its level and it relaxes, watching me with that blue eye that’s far too knowing for something so young.

“Hi,” I say softly, holding out my hand to it, the back exposed so it can sniff it. The kitten gives my hand the most cursory of sniffs, then rubs the side of its face along my fingers. I have no idea why it did that, but it’s adorable and makes me think it likes me, and I look up to tell Marco.

He’s watching us, Aisha tucked up under his chin and Loaf curling around his ankles, and the smile on his face makes my heart pick up its pace, jogging like it was immediately after climbing the stairs. He looks so genuinely happy, so content and at peace, and I want to be the one responsible for that smile, the one who makes him feel this way. His face reflects what I feel whenever I’m around him, and I open my mouth to try and speak but nothing comes out.

“That’s Parvati,” Marco tells me after a moment, still smiling, his voice soft so he doesn’t scare the little black fluff away. “She’s the one looking for a home.”

I nod and turn my attention back to the kitten, and she licks my finger with a sandpaper tongue. “Hi, Parvati,” I tell her, and move my hand to scratch under her chin. She closes her eye and rubs into my hand, and I hear the faintest, raspy little purr rise from her chest. “I’m Jean.”

The kitten seems to approve of my name, and reaches up one tiny paw and puts it on my knee, stretching up onto her hind legs to sniff at my scarf before batting at the fringe. Turns out my instincts were right, and I bend lower so she can reach it more easily. Her eye widens as I drop down, and there’s a sudden flurry of tiny paws, desperately trying to grab my scarf and yank it off my neck.

Marco giggles, the sound sweet and boyish, and walks a little closer to grab the bags of food with his free hand. “I’ll just get this set up while you two get to know each other.”

“Okay.” I drop down onto all fours, dragging the fringe of my scarf over the kitten’s back, and she flops onto her side to try and grab it with all four feet. “Why isn’t she opening her other eye?”

Marco has already disappeared down the hallway, and his voice echoes back to me from across the apartment. “She doesn’t have one.”

“Wait, what?” Parvati chooses that exact moment to go for the gold and leaps up, her entire tiny body landing on my scarf and clinging to it, so I can’t see her face. Instinctually, I put a hand over her to keep her from falling and stand up, following Marco’s voice into a tiny but well-scrubbed, cheerful kitchen. Aisha is on top of the refrigerator, her face buried in a food dish, and Marco is crouched on the floor in front of Loaf—has any other man’s thighs looked that beautiful while in a crouching position? I think not—squirting a syringe of something into the cat’s waiting mouth. “What’s that about her eyes?”

Marco rubs the top of Loaf’s head and stands up, only to bend again and deliver a dish of food to the cat. When he turns to look at me, his eyes go wide and he hurries over. “Jean, you need to support her bottom or she’s going to keep squirming and you’ll drop her.”

“Huh?” I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Here.” Marco takes my wrist and brings my free hand up towards my chest, shaping it into a cup and putting it under Parvati’s kicking back legs. As soon as he does, she stops moving around and relaxes, settling into my hand like it’s a seat and gnawing on a piece of scarf fringe.

“Oh.” I watch Parvati for a moment, content with the vicious slaughter of my scarf, then look up. Marco is standing right in front of me, only a few inches separating us, and I realize for the first time that he’s a little taller than I am, that I have to look up to meet his eyes. His hand stays under mine, shaped around it, like I need help supporting Parvati’s scant weight, and I swear I can hear his heart beating. We’re so close that I could stretch up and kiss him, if I wanted to, and as I stare into his liquid, dark-lashed eyes, I want to. I want to so, so badly.

Marco clears his throat and steps back, turning around to mess with the bags holding our food, and I feel a strange sense of regret, like the moment was there and then passed, like somehow I’d let him down. “She came to the shelter with an infection in her eye. Reiner and his dad tried to save it, but it was too deep in, so they had to remove it.”

It takes me a second to figure out what he’s talking about. “So she doesn’t have an eye on the one side?” I look down at the kitten in my hands; she looks pretty happy, rolling around and playing with my scarf, but when I look closer, I see that her eyelids have fused on the one side.

“Right.” Marco’s tone changes; he sounds worried now, almost pleading. “That’s not a problem, right? I know some people get grossed out by it, but she’s a really sweet kitty, and she’s already going to have a hard time finding a home.”

“Why?” The politics of foster cats are a mystery to me.

“Because she’s black.” Marco glances over, and I must look flabbergasted, because he explains. “Black cats and dogs are always the last ones to get adopted. People think they’re bad luck or something.”

“That’s bullshit!” I’m indignant on Parvati’s behalf, and my voice rises, making her jump. I rub the top of her head with one finger, and she settles down. “Why wouldn’t someone want a perfectly good cat because of its _color_?!”

Marco shrugs, but he looks pleased at my response. “Yeah, it’s stupid, but it is what it is.” He looks sidelong at us as he piles little bowls of food on a tray, and his voice rises hopefully. “So do you think you’d like her?”

I look down at Parvati. In all honesty, I hadn’t wanted her; I was using the excuse of wanting a kitten to get closer to Marco, and was planning on finding some reason why I couldn’t take the cat. But that was before she’d played with me, before I saw how cute she was, before she rubbed on my ankles and purred, just for me. Maybe I’m a sucker, and maybe this is a bad idea, but yeah, I like this kitten, and I want to give her a good home.

“Well, _yeah_.” I look up and grin when I meet Marco’s eyes. “I mean, she licked me, right? That means I belong to her now.”

Marco’s smile is enough to illuminate the entire room, and it feels like the light from it goes straight into my chest, warming me from within. “That’s _amazing_ , Jean, that’s so great to hear!” He’s practically bouncing, he’s so happy, and his enthusiasm is contagious; I smile right back, and Parvati purrs next to my heart, and for a few seconds, everything is right with the world.

Then my stomach growls, and Marco laughs. “C’mon,” he picks up the tray and gestures with his head, “we can go eat in the living room.”

I follow him into the next room, cradling the kitten— _my_ kitten—against my chest, and I’m dazzled when Marco turns on the light. If my apartment is all clean lines and minimalism, Marco’s is an explosion of color and textures and plant life, all sprawling together into a cacophony that somehow _works_. He’s decorated in primarily reds and oranges, with tapestries hanging on the walls and draped over the furniture, and there are potted plants everywhere, adding green to the warmer tones. It’s riotous and crazy and everything my professors in college and my bosses are work warn me against, and yet it’s warm and inviting, like this is a place to rest and recharge, like the room itself is trying to give me a hug.

Aisha charges past my ankles and clambers up an enormous contraption by the window, something made of planks of wood and carpet. She climbs to the top and flops onto her side, her tail hanging over the edge and waving in the air, the picture of contentment.

Marco carries the tray to his coffee table, which is low slung to match the couch, and starts spreading out the food. “We can just share everything, is that okay?”

“Sure, that’s fine.” I carefully untangle Parvati from my scarf and put her down, and she scampers off to go bat at Loaf, who is walking slowly and sedately into the room. For a kitten with a disability, she doesn’t seem to be slowed down by it at all. Loaf is not the least bit impressed by her antics, and gives her the finest feline side-eye I’ve ever seen.

I consider if I should sit in one of Marco’s chairs, which are really more like beanbags than chairs, but then say to hell with it and sit next to him on the couch. It’s not a full size couch but not quite a love seat either, and I settle myself down and look over the food. “So what’d you get?”

“A bunch of different daals.” He glances over at me, and his brow creases like he’s just thought of something. “Is vegetarian food okay? I didn’t ask before, I just ordered.”

“Vegetarian is fine.” The Kirschteins are a long line of carnivores, but I figure if I’m still hungry later, I can always grab a burger or something on my way home. That is, of course, if I even go home tonight… maybe Marco will ask me to stay the night. Probably not, but hope springs eternal. “Are you a veggie?”

“I try to be. I eat fish sometimes, but that’s about it.” Marco finishes arranging the bowls, and hands me a piece of flat bread that’s still warm from the oven. “Dig in.”

As it turns out, Afghani food is fucking delicious, even if it doesn’t have any meat in it, and I eat until I’m full to bursting. Marco matches me bite for bite, and conversation lags while we’re filling our faces. That could be awkward, but it’s really not; we’ve got a task in front of us, by god, and we’re going to finish our food before we try and fill the silence with chatter. It’s a comfortable silence, a companionable one, and it occurs to me, as I’m getting the last little bit of the pumpkin daal onto a piece of bread and into my face, that this is the second time in two days that I’ve shared a meal with someone and not felt the need to talk. It’s not like that at work, where any lunch with a client is a chance to talk shop, or even at home, where my mom wants to hear all about my life and what I’m doing and I can’t talk fast enough to satisfy her curiosity. It’s unusual for me to just sit and eat and concentrate on the food, but it turns out I kind of like it.

Marco leans back with a content sigh, lacing his hands over his stomach. “I concede defeat. You win again, Ahmad.”

“Do you ever finish all of it?” I shovel in that last little bit of pumpkin daal, and that’s it, I’m done. Another bite and I’ll explode. I flop back beside Marco, feeling full and content and sleepy.

He shakes his head. “Never. I think Ahmad considers it a challenge to make sure no one is ever hungry after they order his food. I have no idea how he clears his overhead every month.”

“No kidding.” I gaze out into the room, my eyes a little unfocused, until they fall on a series of framed pictures behind Marco’s TV. They stand out, being the only things in the room that don’t look like they came from somewhere far away and exotic. “Is that your family?”

Marco opens his eyes and follows my line of sight, and when he sees what I’m looking at, he grins sunnily. “Yeah, that’s them.”

I get up off the couch—needing to use my hands to push off my knees, which is a sign of a meal well eaten—and waddle closer to the pictures. Aisha watches me from her perch as I lean in to get a better look. 

The pictures are so American and wholesome they almost make my teeth hurt. They were clearly taken professionally, in some studio—quite possibly a JCPenney or Sears studio, my brain supplies snidely and unhelpfully—and show the Bott clan all gathered together. There’s one where Marco is clearly a teenager, looking younger and brighter-eyed than he does now, standing behind his seated parents, flanked on one side by a sister and on the other by a brother. The family is all cut from the same cloth, with olive skin, dark hair, and soulful brown eyes, although only Marco inherited his mother’s freckles. They’re all dressed well and smiling at the camera, although their smiles look a little strained, a little sad, and Marco’s father has grayish undertones to his skin.

In the next portrait, Marco’s dad is missing, and I have a sinking feeling that I know why. This one was taken more recently, and Marco’s mom and his sister are both sitting down, with Marco and his brother standing behind them. Marco is, to my surprise, wearing his dress military uniform, and while there’s no denying how deliciously hot he looks in it, he also looks pretty uncomfortable.

Next to the pictures of the family, there’s a framed shot of Aisha and Loaf, curled together and napping in a sunbeam, and that makes me smile.

“You’ve got a nice looking family.”

“Thank you.” He sounds pleased by the compliment. “Ilse’s my sister, and Isaac’s my brother.”

“You’re older than both of them, yeah?”

“Yeah. I was kind of a surprise baby, so I’m seven years older than Ilse, and nine years older than Isaac.”

“Damn.” I come back to the couch, sitting beside him and hoping it’s not obvious that I’ve scooted a little closer than before. “I thought the surprise babies usually came _after_ the planned ones, not before?”

Marco laughs out loud, and I smile, happy that he took that the way I intended it and not as an insult. “My folks were really young when they had me, and didn’t care to repeat the experience of being broke parents again, so they waited to have the other two.” He shrugs one shoulder. “It’s cool, though. They never made me feel like I _had_ to take care of them, so I liked it. I was more like another dad than their brother for a long time.”

“Awwwwww.” I can’t help it, that’s adorable, and Marco’s cheeks color faintly at my cooing. “That is kind of adorable.”

“I like being an older brother,” he says simply, and he’s about the only person who could say that that I would believe. 

We’re quiet for a moment, looking at the pictures of Marco’s family, until he pipes up. “What about you? Do you have any brothers or sister?”

“Nah.” I shake my head. “My parents had me kind of late in life, so they decided to stick with just one.”

“That’s cool.” Marco leans on the arm of the sofa, propping his head in his hand and watching me through half-lidded eyes. “Sometimes, when Isaac was really tiny and crying all the time, I wished I was an only child.”

“You wouldn’t if you were one.” That came out unexpectedly, and I close my mouth with a snap.

“Oh?” Marco, of course, is too observant to let that slide. “Why do you say that?”

Fortunately, Parvati decides to make an appearance and climbs up on the couch, and I pick her up and set her in my lap, where she bites ferociously at my fingers. I play with her a little, trying to get my thoughts in order. I could lie, or deflect, or try to bluff my way through this, but Marco would know. Of course he would know, and he wouldn’t even call me out on it; he’d just look vaguely disappointed and let it slide, and that would be harder than getting caught in a lie, somehow.

“I got lonely a lot as a kid,” I tell him, my voice slow and halting. “You know, big house, only three people in it, not a lot of other kids in the neighborhood.” I glance over, and Marco is watching me and nodding encouragingly, so I keep going. “And I wasn’t too good with other kids when I went to school, because I was spoiled, you know? Only child syndrome and shit. It made socializing… difficult.”

I’m half convinced that if Eren hadn’t eventually decided that since we were spending so much time together in time out anyway that we might as well have the fun of doing the bad stuff that got us sent there together, I never would have had friends at all.

“That happens a lot,” Marco says softly. “But you’re fine now.”

I snort, and Parvati looks up from my lap in alarm. “You only say that because…” _because I’m trying to impress you and make you like me_ is what I want to say, but I obviously can’t say _that_ , so I start stroking Parvati’s ears and soothing her, buying myself some precious time. “You only say that because you haven’t seen me at my worst.”

Marco laughs, but there’s a bitter edge to it, and I look up in surprise. He’s not looking at me, his gaze faraway, and a little muscle in his jaw twitches under his skin. “Your worst would have to be pretty awful to scare me away.”

What do you say to that? We’ve stumbled onto something deep, something deep and personal and painful, and I’m not sure how to proceed. I’ve never been good at this, never been any good at talking people through their problems, especially not when I can barely work through my own, and I take the coward’s way out: I look down at my lap and play with Parvati, letting her distract me as she stretches herself out long and rolls over to show me her belly so I can scratch it.

Marco makes a soft sound. “She must really like you if she’s letting you touch her belly.”

“Yeah?” Talking about the kitten feels safe, and I glance over. That weird, tight expression is gone, and Marco looks open and friendly again.

“Yeah. Cats don’t show their bellies to just anyone. If you tried to pet Aisha’s, you’d get clawed.”

“What about Loaf’s?”

Marco laughs at that. “Loaf _is_ a giant belly, he probably wouldn’t care.”

And then we’re laughing together, and the strangeness goes away, dissipating at the sound of laughter. Aisha looks over from her perch, and Loaf, perhaps hearing his name, comes wandering over and plops down on Marco’s feet.

“I’d ask if you want to watch TV,” Marco says, once we’re done giggling like a couple of little kids, “but I don’t have cable or Netflix, so there’s really not a lot to watch.”

“You… what?” This is astounding, and I boggle at him. “Why do you even have a tv, then?”

He grins, a quick, sliding little thing across his face, and pulls something out from under the couch. I start laughing all over again when I get a better look at it, and see that it’s a N64 controller.

“How vintage and hipster of you, Marco.”

“I like the classics.” He gently nudges Loaf off his feet and stands up, moving over to get things set up, moving the plant that was hiding the game system out of the way. “We can play Mario Kart or Smash Brothers if you want, oooor…” he looks over his shoulder at me, one eyebrow raised, “if you know anything about the Water Temple, I’d really appreciate the help.”

“The Water Temple?” I sit up straight, and I can feel a cocky, confident smirk sliding onto my face. “Son, I was _raised_ on the Water Temple.”

“Good, because I need the help.” He gets everything turned on, and the living room fills with the sound of Epona’s hoofbeats. Marco settles back down on the couch, Loaf lays on his feet again, and I lean forward.

“Okay, so the first thing you need is Big Goron’s sword, do you have that yet?”

“No, do I need it?”

“You don’t need it, but it’ll make a mini-boss battle you’ve got coming a hell of a lot easier…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marco's an embarrassing cat dad. You can't just do the Voice in front of other people like that!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prrrrrbt!

I wake up slowly, mostly because I’m uncomfortable. There’s something heavy and hot pressing down on my waist, just above my hip, in the stupid little place where my waist dips in like a girl’s. Whatever it is, it’s way too heavy and way too _hot_ , and I shift, trying to dislodge it. It shifts with me, staying in the same spot, and I’m suddenly aware that there’s something else near my chin, tucked in against my throat, equally hot and tickling at my skin. I move my hand, heavy at the end of my arm, and my hand brushes across soft fur and I hear a little _prrrbt_ sound before some squeaky purring.

 _Cats_. I’m covered in _cats_.

I hear a soft chuckle from somewhere above me, and I realize that my head is pillowed on something firm and warm. It takes my sleepy mind a moment to figure it out, but I realize it’s a thigh—a very nice thigh, by the feel of it under my cheek. Fear spikes through my chest and I bring a hand to my mouth, wiping at my chin and dammit, I’ve been drooling. Of course I have, and I sincerely hope I didn’t leave a drool puddle behind.

My movements threaten to disrupt the cat on my waist, and I feel the first little pinpricks of claws sinking into my flesh, and I freeze.

“Shhhh, you’re okay.” Marco’s voice comes from far away, and I think he’s talking to one of the cats, but then I feel gentle, patient fingers combing through my hair, untangling it, and I relax as bonelessly as one of the cats laying on top of me. “That’s right, you’re fine, everything’s fine…”

As Marco croons and toys with my hair—and how did he know I love having my hair played with, one of the fastest ways to make me melt is to run your fingers through my hair—I try to remember what happened. I helped Marco through Big Goron’s side quest to get the sword and then through the Water Temple, and god help us both, that had taken a lot longer than I thought it would. Then Marco had decided to hunt some Poes around the valley and, tired from my restless night and early morning and still full of delicious Afghani food, I’d slouched down on the couch, Parvati on my lap, my elbow propped on the back of the couch and my head in my hand. I hadn’t intended to fall asleep, just doze a little, lulled by the warm kitten on my lap and the soft, endearing sound of Marco’s voice as he talked to himself while stalking Poes, but I’d clearly passed right the fuck out. Somehow, I’d gone from leaning on the back of the couch to having my head pillowed on Marco’s (very muscular, very firm) thigh, and that hadn’t bothered him enough to move it.

So… does that mean he’s into it? That he’s into me? His dick is only a few centimeters away, right behind my head, it’d be easy for me to just go for it and try to suck him off. I mean, I’m already drooling, my mouth is well-lubricated, and the thought of rolling down his yoga pants and unwrapping his cock like a gift is a damn appealing one. I can picture in my mind exactly how it’d go, how I could dislodge the cats and roll off the couch, positioning myself between his legs. I’d look up at him, watching him through my eyelashes as I’d start nuzzling at his crotch with my nose and mouth, and he’d bite at his plush lower lip, his cheeks coloring beautifully, and when I’d raise an eyebrow in question, he’d swallow and nod before burying both of his hands in my hair. He’d keep his hands there, maybe even tugging a little, as I’d peel his pants down, letting his cock spring free, and he’d shudder and make a quiet gasping sound in the back of his throat as I’d run my tongue up his length in one long, smooth stripe…

I shake my head a little, and his hand stills in my hair. That fantasy had been a little too vivid, a little too much like a goddamn memory than a fantasy, and if I keep going down that road, I’m going to actually roll off the couch and try it. If I were more than sixty percent sure he’d be into it, I’d do it anyway, just roll the dice and see what happened, but there’s still too much uncertainty. If he retreated, if he looked disgusted or horrified or, worst of all, vaguely apologetic, I wouldn’t be able to take it. Only complete acceptance, consent, and joy are acceptable answers here, and I’m not doing anything until I’m sure I’ll get those things.

Instead, I roll my head to the side, willfully ignoring how that puts my head firmly in his lap instead of just resting on his leg, and open my eyes. If he’s really not into it, if he’s a terrified straight boy, he’ll push me off and I’ll have my answer once and for all. 

He doesn’t push me off. He moves his hand a little, so he’s not covering my eyes, and keeps playing with my hair, twisting the strands together and then parting them, looking down at me with a soft smile on his face.

“How long was I asleep?”

“A couple hours.” He chuckles quietly, smoothing my hair back from my forehead. “You snore a little.”

“I do not!” I know that I do, I’ve had other lovers tell me I do, but a man’s pride is endless.

“You do,” Marco says with full authority, and I stop trying to argue, mostly because I’m afraid that if I argue, he’ll stop touching my hair. “It was pretty cute; Parvati started purring in accompaniment.”

I lift my hand and touch the fuzzy little ball near my neck, and the purring increases in volume. I look down the length of my chest and towards my twisted waist, and Aisha looks back at me, grumpy about all my moving around. I laugh a little, and look back up at Marco. Even from this awkward angle, he’s beautiful. “Good thing Loaf didn’t decide to come up here too.”

Marco scoffs. “I wouldn’t have let him get on you. He’s too heavy for the unaccustomed.”

“Mmmmm.” I close my eyes again, relaxing as he keeps running his fingers through my hair. It’s like he _knows_ I like it, like he knows he’s turning me into complete and absolute jelly in his hands, but it feels too nice for me to protest or fight against it. “What time is it?”

“Almost ten.”

“What!” My eyes fly open again, and I look up at him in shock. Almost ten? Where’d all the time go?

“Yeah.” He looks a little uncertain, and his hand stops moving, just resting on my head. “Is that a problem? If I’d have known, I’d have woken you up…”

“No, it’s just… I just didn’t know it was that late, that’s all.” Shit, now it’s dark outside, and I don’t know this neighborhood very well, and Adelaide is a ten minute walk away. Can I ask Marco to come with me? Will I look like a giant wimp if I admit I don’t want to walk through this neighborhood at night?”

As if he’s read my mind, Marco offers, “If you want, you can crash here tonight.”

I wish—I wish with every fiber of my being—that he means I can crash here tonight in his bed, and crash after a long few hours of kissing and groping him, but he’s probably just being nice. He hasn’t pushed my head off his lap, so that means he’s not a shrieking no homo straight boy, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s into me, either. Reiner would probably let someone fall asleep on him too, and that’s the same crowd Marco runs with. “If you don’t mind, that’d be great.”

“Sure, it’s fine.” I think that maybe, just maybe, he flushes a little when he says that, but it could be the awkward angle and my imagination. “Here, let me just…” He reaches across me and scoops up Aisha, his fingertips brushing my waist and sending little trails of fire running up my spine. As he brings her back to his chest, I notice that she only has three feet dangling above me, and one of her front legs ends in a stump. Marco cuddles her to his chest, and suddenly cat butt is blocking my view of his face, so I cup a hand around Parvati and sit up. Aisha is rubbing the top of her head on Marco’s chin, and for the second time today, I’m jealous of that damn cat.

Parvati lessens the blow by making another of those little _prrrbt_ noises and licking my chin. Thanks, little friend; it’s good to know you’ve got my back.

“Okay,” Marco says, sounding almost meditative, like he’s making a decision. My heart spikes up into my chest, pounding wildly with the sudden hope that he might invite me into his bed, that I might get to spend tonight curled around him, fighting with Aisha for his affections. “Okay,” he repeats, and looks up to meet my eyes, his expression subdued and almost regretful. “I’ll get you some blankets and stuff. Do you want more comfortable pants?”

So the couch it is then, and I try to not feel too deflated. I mean, the guy let me nap on his leg and played with my hair, so the night has already been a win. Just because he doesn’t immediately want to bump uglies doesn’t eliminate the possibility in the future, and I have to accept that Marco wants to play at a slower pace than anyone else I’ve ever tried to get into bed. It’s not even getting him into bed; it’s romance, plain and simple, and Marco is more challenging to romance than anyone else I’ve tried before.

“Sure,” I tell him, and crack a grin. “I don’t suppose you’ve got an extra toothbrush around somewhere, do you?”

He grins back, relieved. “Probably. Give me a minute to find one.” He disappears with Aisha, and I set Parvati on my lap and play with her paws while I wait.

“What do you think, Little P?” I ask her quietly, as she bites at my finger with her needle sharp teeth. “He’s into it, right? He wouldn’t let me be staying here if he wasn’t, right?”

Marco returns a few moments later with a pile of neatly folded blankets and dumps them on the end of the couch. “Ta da!” he exclaims, triumphantly brandishing a toothbrush, still in its wrapper, at me. “I knew I had an extra somewhere!”

His enthusiasm is contagious, and I take the toothbrush with a smile. “My dentist and orthodontist thank you.”

Pleased with himself, he hands me a pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt, worn shapeless and floppy from repeated washings. “Why don’t you go do your bathroom stuff while I set up the couch?”

“You don’t have to set up anything, I can just bundle up in a blanket.”

“No, no, no.” He’s shaking his head and already unfolding a fitted sheet. “You’re my guest, you need to comfortable.”

I almost cheekily suggest that his bed, with him in it, would be the most comfortable place in the apartment, but instead, I stand up to get out of his way and go brush my teeth. On my way past him, I put a hand on his shoulder, feeling the muscles flex under my palm, and give it a little squeeze. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

Before I can take my hand back, he reaches up and covers it with his, reciprocating with a squeeze of his own, and then it’s back to messing with the sheets. “It’s my pleasure, Jean. Really.”

This guy… everything about this guy. I beat a hasty retreat to the bathroom, before I can open my mouth and tel him I love him or something equally embarrassing.

Marco’s bathroom is small and cluttered, but also fairly organized. I won’t be so obnoxious that I snoop in the medicine cabinet, because that’s just douchey, but the shower and counters are fair game. It turns out that Marco has a rather large amount of hair products, which I find amusing, and a lot of skin care products I don’t recognize, which I find baffling. Most of them look medical grade, and it makes me wonder if he has some skin issues that I can’t see. Not that it would bother me if he did, but I’m curious. He also has a half-used bottle of Tattoo Goo, which tells me he has more ink than just the glimpse I saw on his calf, and _that_ I’m extremely curious about it. As I brush my teeth—with Tom’s Natural Toothpaste, naturally—I allow myself to fantasize about slowly stripping Marco down and finding every tattoo for myself, and asking the story behind each one.

I change into the clothes Marco gave me, and it’s not until I pull the shirt over my head that I realize how much it smells like him. Of course it smells like him, it’s his shirt… but all the same, I pull it up to my nose and inhale, sighing as the scent of Marco’s detergent fills my nose. Yeah, he’s not getting this shirt back. If I can find some way to make off with it, I’m going to.

I pad out of the bathroom and find that he’s got the couch all set up for me, complete with Parvati waiting for me near the pillow. “Thanks again for letting me stay.”

“It’s no trouble.” He straightens up from tucking in the last corner of the sheet, and smiles when he sees me. “Ah, the Jinae Eagles, very nice.”

I glance down at my shirt, and sure enough, it has an eagle and **JINAE HIGH SCHOOL** scrawled across the front. “You’re from Jinae originally?”

“Yes. Just a down home farm boy.” He winks at me, and my knees get a little weak. “Trying to make his way in the big city.”

“Trost isn’t that big,” I scoff. “It’s not, like, Sina or anything.”

“It’s pretty big when you come from a town where everyone knows everyone else.”

Huh. That’s something to chew over that I hadn’t considered. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

Marco nods, then moves closer, pausing before he brushes past me to go to the bathroom. “So… see you in the morning?”

Like I’d ever run out on him. “Yeah.” I swallow, looking up and meeting his eyes, almost losing myself in their depths all over again. “I’ll make you breakfast.”

He smiles at that, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Something to look forward to.” He reaches up then and touches the side of my face, his fingertips whispering against my cheek, and I feel my eyebrows raise, feel my lips purse with anticipation. But then he drops his hand and moves past me, heading towards the bathroom. “Goodnight, Jean.”

“Night, Marco.” Just when I think the sexual tension couldn’t get any stronger, he goes and does something like that, and I flop grouchily onto the couch when I hear the bathroom door close. I’m sure I’m going to be up all night, obsessing over what it all means, but then Parvati lays on my chest and purrs, and I drop as quickly into sleep as if I’d hardly been awake at all.

~*~

It’s still dark when my phone shrills to life, shocking me out of a deep, heavy sleep. I curse, fumbling to find it, forgetting where I am and knocking something off the table before I find it and bring it to my face. If it were any other ringtone, I’d ignore it, but it’s my uncle, and one does _not_ ignore his calls. Not if one wants to preserve one’s dignity and not get reamed up and down in front of everyone at work. Being his nephew should provide some perks, but he is disgustingly fair and even-handed with his abuse.

“… hello?”

“Hey, brat.” He sounds like he’s been awake for hours. He very well might have been; I don’t think the man needs to sleep. “Get your ass to work five minutes ago, the deadline on the Climmer project got moved up and it’s all hands on deck.”

Christ, the Climmer group. A gang of scum and douchebags if there ever was one. I try to roll onto my back, then immediately jump forward when Parvati squeaks behind me. She’s somehow managed to winnow her way in-between me and the couch, and starts climbing up my back to investigate what’s so rudely awoken us both.

“Do I have time to shower?”

“If you come into my building dirty, I’m docking your pay for however long it takes you to get home and fix the situation.”

“Got it.” I’m on salary so that’s an idle threat, but he would definitely berate me for twenty minutes before sending me home. “I’ll be there in forty five.”

“Make it thirty.”

“Yes, sir.” And just like that, he’s gone, hanging up without a goodbye. Perfectly typical behavior, actually.

“Dammit…” Parvati manages to scale the mountain that is my side, and she crawls up to my face, sticking her nose right up one of my nostrils. I snort and catch her with both hands, moving her down to my chest. “Sorry, Little P.”

“Jean?”

Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_ , I woke up Marco. I sit up, using the light from my phone to illuminate the room, and Marco’s standing in the doorway to his bedroom, a shadow among all the other shadows. He reaches out and hits a switch, silhouetting himself with light from the room behind him, and he’s looking tousle-haired and sleepy and entirely too beautiful for words, his pajama bottoms puddling around his bare feet and his long-sleeved t-shirt hitching up a little around his belly, exposing a line of dark hair leading downward. No, Jean, _no_ , don’t let yourself get trapped in that rabbit hole! I tear my eyes away from it and look up at his face, shrugging as I untangle myself from the blankets and stand up.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. Duty calls?”

“Work?” he asks, like he isn’t awake enough to parse what I’m saying. Poor guy, he’s so tired he can’t even open his right eye.

“Yeah.” I tug on my shoes and search for my jacket, hampered by Parvati, who thinks the wiggling hands are an invitation to play. “I won’t be able to make you breakfast.”

Marco smiles a little, and shrugs one shoulder. “Raincheck?”

“Sure.” He asked for a raincheck, that means he wants to do this again! That implies there will _be_ a next time! I struggle into my jacket, not bothering to change out of his pajama pants, and he doesn’t say anything about it. “I’ll make you the best damn breakfast you’ve ever eaten, just not today.”

“Okay.” He pads out after me, to lock the door behind me after I leave. I get a glimpse of his bedroom, and see more textiles and plants, and Loaf sprawled out at the bottom of the bed. Aisha watches me from a pillow near the headboard, and I swear she looks smug about it.

Marco unlocks the door for me, and I check my pockets to make sure I’ve got everything. Five twenty AM, what a beastly time to have to get up…

As I pat my jacket, making a mental checklist of wallet, phone, and so on, I feel something in my hair. I look up in surprise, and Marco is brushing my hair away from my face, trying to fix what I’m sure is beastly bedhead. “You remember the way back to the studio?”

“Yeah.” Even if I don’t, I have my friend Google to help me. Right now, though, as long as he’s going to play with my hair, I’m not going anywhere, my uncle and his demands be damned. I’m tempted to close my eyes and just let Marco do his thing, for as long as he wants to do his thing.

It doesn’t take him nearly long enough, and when he’s got my hair in order, he drops his hand onto my shoulder. “Take care of yourself out there,” he tells me, his right eye still screwed shut with sleepiness, and I give him my best, most winning smile.

“I have to,” I tell him, daring to reach up and touch his arm, ghosting my thumb along the outline of his impressive bicep. “I have a kitten now.”

That’s the right thing to say; he breaks out in a grin, and his teeth flash white in the shadows near the doorway. “That’s right, you do. Speaking of which, you need to get out of here quick, or she’s going to make a break for it when you open the door.”

“I will.” And still I linger, hoping against hope for something more, for some other indication of where this is going, of where it _could_ go.

Marco squeezes my shoulder and then opens the door, gently pushing me out into the hallway, already blocking a tiny, determined feline adventurer with his foot. “See you later, Jean.”

“Bye.” The door closes in my face, and I can hear Marco scolding Parvati on the other side. I heave out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, pop my collar against early morning chill, and head down the hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awwwww....
> 
> So! A question for my readers! I have an idea kicking around in my head for a side story in the Namaste universe, told from Eren's POV (the night of the fateful Hitch-Mikasa makeup, in fact). However, if I write that, I won't be able to finish an update for the main story in time for next Monday. Is anyone interested in taking a one week break from the main story and delving into some background details and getting a narrator besides Jean? Let me know!


	12. Chapter 12

I pull into my work’s parking lot after exactly twenty-nine minutes, and the fastest shower known to man. My hair is still wet and disheveled, and I didn’t bother to shave. I can always argue I’m rocking scruffy chic, which the guys down in HR do all the time; my uncle won’t buy it, but I won’t get reprimanded.

Probably. Too much.

My uncle meets me at the elevator doors, descending on me as soon as they open to the correct floor. He, of course, looks completely immaculate, not a hair or line of clothing out of place, and I feel positively grungy and gross standing next to him.

“You didn’t shave,” he says by way of greeting, and I hang my head with feigned shame.

“I got here in thirty minutes, though.”

He acknowledges that with a sniff, and when I look up, he’s examining me with narrowed, calculating eyes. “You didn’t sleep in your own bed last night.”

“No, sir, I didn’t.”

“So you left her behind to get here.”

“Yes, sir.” Parvati’s a girl, and I did spend the night cuddling with her instead of Marco, so this isn’t technically a lie.

“Dedication.” He sounds approving, which is rare enough, and even claps me on the back as I slide past him. I know he’ll be using hand sanitizer on his hand in a few moments, but I won’t be offended. That’s just his way, and I’m used to it by now. “Now get to work.”

“Yes, sir.” I settle down in my desk, boot up my computer, and get ready for a long day.

~*~

I don’t look up from my computer until the sun is high in the sky and the Wonder Twin Interns let themselves into my office, bearing donuts and coffee. They got here at a more godly hour, and while I’ve heard them out in the hallway, I didn’t bother to go say hi to them like I normally would.

I accept their offerings and then shoo them away; I’d normally let them hang out for awhile and shoot the shit, but not today. Not when my ass is on the line with this deadline, and not when my uncle is checking on me every two hours, on the dot, to see how I’m doing. I am a little ahead of schedule though, so when my phone chirps at me, I pick it up to see what’s happening.

I have a text from Marco, and I can’t help the way my heart leaps when I see his name on the screen. I open it, and it’s a video: it begins with a still image Marco’s couch, the sheets and blankets I’d slept on all strewn around, and Parvati, sitting right on the pillow I’d used, the Florence and the Machine shirt I’d left behind dragged up onto the couch beside her. She’s looking right at the camera, her eye wide and imploring.

I screw in my headphones and hit play.

“Parvati!” Marco’s voice fills my ear, and it’s like sunshine on my shoulders, I can’t help but to smile, especially since he’s doing that silly, high-pitched cat voice. “Parvati!”

She looks at him with all due intensity, kneading her paws on a sleeve of my t-shirt.

“Parvati, do you miss Jean? Do you want him to come back?”

She opens her mouth and mews, the sound shrill and plaintive.

“Yeah? You want Jean?”

She cries again, and stands up, wiggling her butt. Before I realize what she’s doing, she’s turned and pounced down onto my shirt, biting it and kicking it with her hind legs, and the video cuts out to the sound of Marco’s laughter.

**Marco Bott: she misses you :(**

I set my phone down and breathe out, feeling a smile creep onto my face for the first time since I got to work. I upload the video onto my computer and watch it a few more times before sending Marco an answer and then getting back to work.

**Jean Kirschtein: i miss her too**

**Jean Kirschtein: when can i take her home?**

Not two minutes later, I get a response, but not from Marco.

**Reiner Zacharius: i’m doing her surgery this weekend, you can have her on monday next week**

**Jean Kirschstein: thanks**

**Jean Kirschstein: can you help me buy cat shit before then?**

**Reiner Zacharius: yeah no prob**

~*~

You’d think that finding time to go shopping for whatever cats need in life would be easy, but my uncle wasn’t kidding about that deadline, and how much time we’d need to put in at the office. I go to work early and come home late, with just enough energy to shower and fall into bed, where I don’t so much sleep as pass the fuck out for a few hours, until it’s time to get up and do it again. The one saving grace I’ve found this week is that I can keep Facebook open in a corner of a work computer, and that every time Marco is online, he sends me messages. He’s not online nearly often enough, but that’s okay. It gives me a little break without letting me get too distracted.

**Marco Bott: hi! :D**

**Jean Kirschtein: hey**

**Marco Bott: how’s work going?**

**Jean Kirschstein: long. these clients are crazy**

**Marco Bott: only a few more days though, right?**

**Jean Kirschstein: hopefully**

**Marco Bott: you’re coming to yoga on Friday, right?**

**Jean Kirschstein: damn straight i am**

**Jean Kirschstein: i already told my boss i’m leaving early**

**Marco Bott: :D :D :D**

I’ve told my boss no such thing, which is why I’m putting in so many hours this week, working with an intensity I haven’t matched in years. If all else fails, I can always resort to dire measures and have my mom call him on my behalf. She’s not his sister, they’re only related by marriage, but as the woman his brother married and reproduced with, she’s got some sway. Hopefully it won’t come to that, especially since the deadline is noon on Friday.

“Who’s Marco?”

I jump, nearly toppling my chair over backwards, my hands scrambling at my keyboard and mouse to minimize the Facebook window. If the boss just caught me goofing off, I’m doomed, I’m never getting out of here on time…

But I should know better by now. My uncle/boss never announces his presence that way; he’s more the lurk-behind-you-until-you-feel-your-skin-crawl type, the kind to sneak up and get into your space and then clear his throat. As I’m teetering on the edge of balance, my arms flailing to keep from getting dumped out of my chair, the odor of sugar and coffee washes over me, and I know who this is. I slam my hands down on my desk, preventing an embarrassing spill, and curse loudly, not caring who hears.

“Dammit, Sasha, don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Sorry.” She sounds properly contrite, but then she’s leaning over my shoulder, the stem of a sucker bobbing on her lower lip, and she’s probably not sorry at all. “Who’s Marco?”

I sigh with irritation, trying to shrug her off, but she leans on me with all the tenacity of a limpet, eyes crawling nosily over my screen. “He’s my yoga teacher.”

Sasha snorts, then does a quick double-take when I don’t respond. “Wait, you go to yoga?”

“Yes.”

She stares at me for a few seconds, her eyes wide and her brows lifted, and I think back on how we made out a few times when she first started interning, slipping away from company events and pawing at each other in darkened restaurant hallways. She’s cute, and fun, and has an adorable Southern accent that she carefully tries to hide to make herself sound more professional, and I’d been lazily interested, wondering if there’d been anything there worth pursuing. But no, she’d come to me on her third week at work, eyes downcast and scuffing at the floor of my office with her shoe, and told me she didn’t think we could keep fooling around.

“Why not?” I’d asked, a little disappointed but ready to roll with it. We hadn’t had sex, after all, and I’d never really considered us serious or an item.

She’d looked up then, surprised, and blurted out, “Because you’re the company owner’s son!”

I’d winced at that, more upset at being found out than at having my cover blown. “He’s my uncle, actually.”

“But your dad was the F in LIFe advertising, wasn’t he?” Her speech had slurred into a thick drawl, something I’d think back on later and consider cute. 

I’d winced again, and nodded slowly. “Yeah, but don’t spread that around.”

She’d shaken her head so hard her ponytail had whipped around and gotten her in the face, and it’s the story of my life that I start finding things I really like about a person as they’re breaking up with me. Not that it had really been a break-up; we’d have had to have been dating for that to be true.

“I won’t tell anyone, but you understand why we can’t keep fooling around?” So earnest, so sweet, like I’d storm down to my uncle’s office and demand that she be fired immediately for not putting out.

“Yeah, I get it.” I’d shooed her out of my office then, wanting to be alone for awhile. “I’m not going to say anything to anyone, so you’re fine.”

“Thank you! Thank you so much!” And she’d fled, promptly avoiding me for the two weeks. Three weeks later, the second of the Wonder Twin Interns had shown up for orientation, and they’d fallen in with each other so quickly it was like something destined and pre-ordained.

“Jean does yoga?”

Clearly summoned by my reminiscing, like he’s some kind of unhappy thoughts ninja, Connie pokes his head into my office. Conrad Springer, our other intern, short and stocky in that male gymnast kind of way, with his prematurely gray hair shaved off in a buzzcut. Sasha turns and beams at him, the kind of simple affection she usually reserves for sugary treats and rare steak, and he beams right back. Yeah, it’s for the best that things didn’t work out between us; there’s no way I could compete with that kind of chemistry.

“That’s what he says,” Sasha informs him, and then leans over my shoulder again. “When did you start doing yoga?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“Oh, so you’re new at it.” Connie saunters into the room, taking up station at my other elbow, and I despair of getting any more work done today. “Yoga’s great, though. It’s really good for your back and stuff.”

And stuff. Connie isn’t the brightest bulb in the barrel—a fact generally acknowledged around the office—but he has a positively uncanny ability to discern emotion, and has been an enormous help in fine-tuning the emotional appeal of our work. There’s already whispers about hiring him on permanently as soon as his internship is done, and Sasha too. She’s not much for emotional appeal work, but she’s been brilliant with color, and anything to do with food; they swear downstairs that she can discern more shades of green than anyone else they’ve ever met. They’re both incredibly solid at what they do… it’s everything else that gets goofy. God help me, though, but I like them.

“Yeah, it’s been pretty good. It helps my legs with running.”

Sasha leans across me, and before I can bat her hands away, she’s maximizing the Facebook window.

“Hey!”

“I want to see what he looks like.” She fends me off with the kind of skills you can only get growing up in the country; I don’t stand a chance. The window pops open, and I give up as she clicks on Marco’s face so she can see his page. In all honesty, I don’t fight very hard. Maybe I _want_ their approval, or at least want someone else to admire him. If nothing else, I can show them pictures of Parvati.

Naturally, it’s a picture of Marco cuddling Parvati that pops up first. Sasha squeals, the sound deafening in such close proximity to my ear, and I elbow her to shut her up.

“They’re so cute!”

“That’s Parvati the kitten,” I tell them smugly. “He’s fostering her, and she’s coming home with me this weekend.”

Two pairs of wide eyes fall on me. Connie is the first to break the silence. “You’re getting a kitten from the cute guy?”

I raise an eyebrow at him, and he shrugs. “What, I can appreciate that another man is attractive. Doesn’t mean I want to hit that.”

“Do _you_ want to hit that, Jean?” Sasha asks, still looking over Marco’s picture, completely unbothered by her boyfriend’s comments. “If you don’t, you should. He’s way too cute to be single. Is he single?”

I groan theatrically and push back from my desk with both hands. My chair wheels me away, and the two vultures descend onto my computer, heads together as they Facebook-stalk Marco. “I’m going to get some coffee,” I tell them, and Sasha acknowledges me with a nod. “Don’t touch any of my work screens, and when I come back, I’ll answer three questions.”

“Okay!” I leave them to it, hoping they don’t come up with anything too elaborate or difficult to answer.

I’m watching the office Keurig make a delicious, life-giving, steaming cup of brew when I feel like something’s watching me, like I’m being studied and judged. I know that feeling, know it well, and I’m proud when I only jump a little after turning around and finding my uncle glowering up at me.

“Are you done with the Climmer files yet?” he asks in lieu of a greeting.

“Almost, sir. I just need to tweak the edges and then they’ll be ready to go.”

He nods, and then watches me silently, his head tilted back a bit. I don’t think he’s ever forgiven me for gloating when I was fourteen and hit the growth spurt that made me taller than him, and I try to subtly slouch a little, to put us on a more even footing. Not that he needs any help being super fucking intimidating. They packed a lot of terrifying into a small package when they made this one.

“You’ve been happy lately,” he observes.

I can’t help it; my mouth drops open in shock. I’m not entirely sure my uncle is capable of _feeling_ emotions, let alone noticing the emotions _other_ people are having.

“Close your mouth,” he snaps, irritated, and I shut it immediately. “You look like a simpleton when you do that.”

I wait then as he looks me up and down, his gaze calculating. He’s always been like this, always been intense as hell and humorless. My aunt says he has his reasons for being like this, that being largely responsible for her and my dad made him have to grow up too fast, but she also says that he used to smile sometimes, and have a personality beyond hardened businessman. She told me, only once and only while fairly drunk, that he blames himself for my dad’s death, and that my dad dying was a little like my uncle losing his son. She’d even implied that because I look so much like my dad, my uncle has a hard time being around me sometimes.

“You look just like Farlan, Jeanbo,” she’d told me, her expression fond and also sad at the same time, remembering the brother she’d lost too young. “Seeing you is like seeing him all over again, and it makes Levi think about things he’d rather forget. He loves you, though… don’t ever think that he doesn’t love you.”

My aunt’s drunken reassurances aside, my uncle doesn’t look like he loves me very much right now, and I square my shoulders, preparing myself for some inevitable abuse.

It never comes. Instead, he sighs and shrugs one shoulder, a gesture that, I realize, I learned from my dad and that the two of them share. “Get those Climmer files on my desk. Once I approve them, you can go home.”

My mouth almost falls open again, but I manage to catch it at the last minute; if I look stupid in front of him, he might change his mind and make me stay. “Yes, sir!”

I turn to leave, to run back to my office and kick out the Wonder Twin Interns and get to work, but his voice stops me. “Your mother tells me you’re getting a cat.”

Is he… is he actually taking interest in my life? I look over my shoulder, an eyebrow raised in disbelief. “Uh… yeah. I’m picking her up this weekend.”

“Shelter cat?”

“Yes. A guy I know is fostering her.” I wince a little inside, reducing Marco to _a guy I know_ , but I can’t exactly call him _the guy I’ve got a horrible crush on and think I might be falling in love with because every time I’m around him he makes me feel weak in the knees_ around my uncle/boss.

He nods, and his expression shifts subtly. It’s not something anyone would notice if they didn’t spend a lot of time around him, but he looks almost approving. “Don’t get her declawed.”

“I wasn’t going to.” I need to talk to Reiner about it, but I’m already leaning towards no.

“Good.” He nods, once, which I know is a dismissal. “Get a carrier to take her home in, or she’ll piss all over Adelaide’s seats.”

“Yes, sir.” I make my retreat, heading towards the door, but something makes me turn around at the last minute, looking back at him. That interaction had been positively friendly, for us, and I watch as he gets himself a cup of coffee. “Thanks, Uncle Levi.”

He waves a hand at me, his attention focused on the Keurig and a stain he’s spotted on the counter. “Get back to work, Jean.”

I hurry back to my office, not wanting to get caught in one of his cleaning frenzies, quietly marveling over how he’d called me by name. He tends not to do that, especially at work, and I can’t deny the warm fuzzies I get in my chest from it.

“Get out!” The Wonder Twin Interns scatter like frightened children, unused to me shouting, and I slam myself back down into my chair. They’ve opened about twenty different windows on my desktop, all featuring pictures of Marco’s beautiful, smiling face, but now isn’t the time to get distracted, now is the time to finish polishing the details on this damn project so I can go home before the sun sets today. I minimize all the windows, knowing that I’ll probably want to look at them later—hey, I’m only human, they can be a reward for getting stuff done—and immediately dive back into work.

I don’t surface until half an hour later, when Sasha sneaks back into my office and delivers a cup of coffee, a remake of the one I left in the break room when I’d talked to my uncle. I only pause long enough to drink half of it in one swill and send a quick text, to which I get a reply forty minutes later, just as I’m sending the completed Climmer files to my uncle’s email.

**Jean Kirschstein: hey can we go shopping for cat stuff tonight? i’ll buy you a beer to make it worth your while**

**Reiner Zacharius: u don’t have to buy me a beer but sure**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: 3,000 words of Levi took two agonizing weeks to write.  
> Funnier fact: Two days of writing Jean and Reiner and I'm at 5,000 words and counting.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bro time with Reiner.

I pull into the parking lot of the nearest PetSmart, eyeing the enormous, bright box store with disdain. I’ve never been in one of them before, never had the need, and I was totally okay with that. I try to avoid big box stores in general, much preferring to just order stuff off Amazon and have it arrive two days later at my apartment. However, I have no idea what to buy for a cat, and the sheer number of options on Amazon had scared me off pretty quick. Who knew that a tiny, furry little creature would need so much _stuff_?

I can see Reiner waiting for me in front of the store, bundled up in a leather jacket and with Brutus sitting at his feet, and I pull Adelaide up to the sidewalk in front of him. I roll down the window and lean out, and he smiles as he comes forward, Brutus trotting at his heels.

“Do you want to leave her in the car?” I ask, gesturing at his dog.

He looks confused. “Not really. Why?”

Seriously, Reiner? Do I seriously have to explain this? “You can’t take her in the store with you.” Maybe he’s going to tie her leash to a bike rack or something?

Comprehension dawns on his face, and Reiner booms with laughter. “It’s fine, I can take her in here. See?” He points to a sign behind him, and I squint until I can read it. **Well-behaved Animal Friends Welcome Inside**. Oh, all right then.

I look down at my hands on the steering wheel, embarrassed. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“Brutus loves going to the store. But don’t worry, I’ll take her home before you buy me that beer.” He steps back, waving me away. “Go park, we’ll be waiting.”

Sounds like I’m buying him a beer after all. That’s fine, though; he’s doing me a favor, and besides, he’s a pretty fun guy to hang out with. I find a spot for Adelaide under a street light, and hurry through the parking lot to the store. It’s starting to get chilly out, and I realize with a start that Halloween is only a few days away. October somehow slipped away from me, and I didn’t even notice.

Reiner doesn’t waste anytime and hustles me inside, although he does make time for a quick side hug, which I’d been anticipating and prepping myself for. When he wraps his arm around me, I respond by thumping him on the back a couple of times, and his grins turns up a few watts in response.

“Let’s grab a cart; you’re going to need one.”

I dutifully get a cart, and Reiner picks up Brutus and plops her in child’s seat near the handlebar. She stands up on her hind legs, her front paws between my hands, and looks around eagerly, her nose twitching as she tries to smell everything at once.

“Lots of good stuff to smell in here, huh, pup?” I ask her, and she pauses long enough to lick my fingers before turning her attention back to everything around her. I’m glad she’s here; I can focus some of my attention on her and ignore how completely overwhelmed I am by all of this. The store is enormous, cavernous, and I have no idea what any of the stuff inside it is for.

Thank god for Reiner; he takes off down the middle of the store, and I tag along behind him, pushing the cart past a bunch of fish in tanks (pretty sure I don’t need any of those) and a display with small animals, hamsters and mice and big mice that are probably rats (also pretty sure I don’t need those). He guides me into an aisle labeled, helpfully, **CATS**.

“Okay.” He stops near a display of canned food, and I pull up beside him. “Parvati is still a kitten, so you’re going to want to feed her kitten food until she’s about a year old. After that, switch her to adult food, because she won’t be growing anymore and won’t need the extra calories.”

“Got it.” That sounds pretty easy and self-explanatory, and I eye the endless displays of food. “So, uh… which one is the best one?”

“Glad you asked.” And Reiner goes off on this long spiel about pet food, talking about additives and grain filler and a bunch of other things that I try to follow but mostly go completely over my head, and the long and short of it is that I end up with something called Blue Buffalo in my cart, along with a measuring cup and a little plastic bowl. I wanted to buy a heavy, stoneware bowl, until Reiner pointed out that I’d just have to buy another one in a few months when I start feeding her more. He does, however, highly approve of the running water fountain I choose, which he says should last for several years.

“All right, you’ve got everything you need for food and water…” Reiner tosses a small baggie of treats into the cart, which makes Brutus turn around and sniff hopefully. “Now we need to get you a litter box and litter.”

“Okay.” I have to admit, this is the part of cat ownership I’m the least sure about, since a large part of my life goals involve never having to handle poop, and I don’t follow him with quite the same enthusiasm as we move further down the aisle. “Are there different kinds of litter?”

“A _ton_ of different kinds.” Reiner stops abruptly, so fast I almost hit him with the cart, and looks over his shoulder at me, his eyes narrowed and his brows drawn down. “Before we decide on that, though, I need to know something. Two things.”

“Yeah?” Jesus, he’s intimidating when he does that, and I’m suddenly reminded of how much _bigger_ he is.

“Thing number one.” He holds up one finger. “You’re not adopting Parvati just because you like Marco, right?”

“What? No!” I can feel my cheeks coloring, which isn’t going to do much to prove my sincerity. 

“Good, because black cats have enough trouble finding homes already, and a disabled one like Parvati will have an even harder time. Marco was even thinking about keeping her himself, until you told him you were interested.” He turns around fully, his arms crossed over his chest. “If she ends up back at the shelter after six months because you got tired of her, it’ll break Marco’s heart.”

“I’m not going to get rid of her!” Now I’m not only appalled, but starting to feel my blood boil. “For shit’s sake, Reiner, _I want this cat_!” 

He studies me for a moment, then nods. “Okay. I believe you.”

I let out a breath, not even realizing I’d been holding it. How did that happen, that I want the approval of someone I’ve only known for a week so badly? “Okay.”

“Thing number two.” He holds up two fingers. “Are you going to get her declawed?”

“That’s actually something I wanted to ask you about.” Brutus, upset by the sudden raised voices, licks my hand, and I scratch behind her ears. “I don’t know a whole lot about it, honestly, and everything online is really… passionate. On both sides.” He nods, but lets me continue. “So, since you’re my vet now?” He nods again; excellent. “Since you’re my vet, what do you think?”

“Glad you asked.” He uncrosses his arms and holds up one broad hand, using his other to point things out on it. “A cat’s claws are attached to the bones of their paws, like the very tips of our fingers. Cutting those out would be like if someone took out the final bone from the tip of all your fingers.”

“What?” That’s horrifying, and I can feel myself gaping at him. “But then their hands will be all floppy!”

He nods, looking pleased that I’ve made the connection. “Yes, exactly. Not only is it extremely painful, but then the cat can’t stretch its shoulders properly because it can’t grip with its front feet, it’s defenseless if it ever gets outside, and some cats have significant personality changes and other undesirable behavior after the surgery.”

“I’m not doing that to Parvati!” I’m beginning to understand why everything online was so abrasive and argumentative about this. “That’s a shitty thing to do to a cat!”

“That’s why we don’t do it at our clinic, and why it’s an illegal surgery in most of the EU and Australia.”

“So why do people do it?”

He shrugs. “Because they’re more interested in having something pretty around their house than actually taking care of an animal?” He drops one hand to Brutus’ head and sighs. “No, that’s unfair, although it’s definitely true some of the time. Most people do it because they don’t know how to train a cat to scratch where it should scratch and not other places, or because they’re afraid it’ll scratch up kids or a new baby. The thing is, though, most cats know that babies are different and will either avoid them and be very gentle with them, and if a kid is being a brat to a cat, the kid probably deserves to get scratched.” Brutus licks his hand, and he picks her up, cradling her against his massive chest, which makes her look like a little toy instead of a actual, living dog. “It’s starting to get less popular, _thank god_ , and a lot of clinics won’t do it anymore.”

We’ve clearly hit on something he feels strongly about, and I give him a moment to settle his thoughts. “So, can you show me how to teach her to scratch in the right places?”

When he looks up, he’s smiling and cheerful again; that must’ve been the right answer. “Of course. Realistically, though, I’m sure Marco’s already been working with her on that.”

Of course he has. Marco would want the best for his little foster, and would want her to have perfect manners in her new house. I smile back at Reiner. “I’ll ask him too.”

“I’m sure you will.” He claps one big paw on my shoulder, nearly sending me to my knees, then turns back towards the litter. “Since you won’t be getting her declawed, you have your choice of all of them…”

Before too long, two litter boxes (“Cats like having choices”) with scent-defusing hoods, an enormous box of Extra Strength Multicat Clumping litter, and two litter scoops that look like spatulas join the food in the cart. Reiner puts Brutus back on her leash and lets her walk around, then rubs his hands together happily. “All right, we’ve got the essentials, now we go get the fun stuff!” He glances at everything in the cart. “You don’t have a specific budget you need to stick to, do you?”

I wave a hand at him. “Don’t worry about it, we’re fine. Let’s go buy fun stuff.”

The cat toy aisle is one I can understand, fortunately, and I end up loading down the cart with toy mice, sparkly balls that look like they belong on wrapped Christmas gifts, and feathers dangling on a string while Reiner looks on approvingly. Brutus, wanting to get in on the action, finds a dog bone that someone left with the cat stuff, and prances up to Reiner with it in her mouth, showing off her prize. He laughs and lets her keep it, shrugging and saying something about how buying treats becomes inevitable and how I’ll find that out soon enough. He also slips a scratching post into the cart while I’m examining different sparkle balls and trying to decide which color to get.

“I think… I think I’ve got everything.” The cart is piled high now, and I’m glad Adelaide has a surprisingly large trunk. “For something so little, she needs a lot of stuff.”

Reiner nods. “True, but a lot of this you’ll never have to buy again.” He cracks a grin, his eyes crinkling at the sides, and I realize how glad I am that I met him. I don’t usually fall in with people very quickly, tending to hold people at an arm’s length until I’m sure about them, but he’s managed to get past my barriers so quickly I didn’t even notice until he was over them. He’s like the older brother I always wanted but never had.

“Earth to Jean, you still there?”

I blink; Reiner’s waving a hand in front of my face and looking at me inquisitively, and I shake my head.

“Sorry. Got lost for a minute there.”

“It happens.” He starts to fish the bag of dog treats out of the cart, and I swat his hand away. “C’mon, let’s get out of here before you break the bank.”

I’m really not intending to buy more; I swear, I’m not. But as I maneuver the heavily-laden cart towards the front of the store, I see it. I see the one thing I know I need to make this all complete, and I jerk the cart to a stop.

“ _Reiner_.”

He stops, looking back at me, confused. “What?”

“ _Look at this bed_.”

He sees what I’m looking at, and his laughter booms and echoes around the store. “ _Yes_. Oh my god, you have to get that!”

“Grab it for me, the cart’s too full. _But I need it_.”

“Damn straight you do.” He tucks the box under his arm, and we continue to the cash registers.

A significant amount of scanning and a swipe of my bank card later, and I’m the proud owner of a few hundred dollars worth of cat stuff. Now all I need is the cat.

“Did you drive here?” I ask him in the parking lot, as he’s helping me load everything into Adelaide’s trunk. I don’t relish the thought of unpacking all of it myself, but at least my building has carts I can use to get it to the elevator.

“Nah, we took the subway. It’s not far enough away to drive to.”

“Do you want a ride back to your place to drop off Brutus? Or do you know a bar that’ll let you take her inside?”

Reiner looks down at the pup, who’s shivering in the chilly evening air and cuddling close to his ankle. “All the excitement wore her out, I think. Would you mind stopping at my place first?”

“That’s fine.” I slam the trunk and walk around to unlock the doors. “Just keep her on your lap, okay? The seats are leather and she’ll slip if you put her on them.”

“Done and done.” By the time Reiner walks around to the passenger side door, he’s got Brutus tucked into his jacket and is cradling her against his stomach, with just her head poking out above the zipper. He gets into the car with more grace than I thought he’d be able to manage, and buckles the seat belt across both himself and Brutus. “Do you remember how to get there or do you need directions?”

“I remember how to get there on the subway.”

He laughs. “Okay, fair point. Turn left out of the parking lot.”

It’s a comfortable, companionable ride, getting back to Reiner’s apartment. He gives me directions, interspersed with cat care tips, and it’s only about ten minutes before Adelaide is idling on the curb outside his place.

“Do you think Bertolt will want to come too?” I have no problem buying three or more beers.

Reiner is already shaking his head as he climbs out of the car. “Nah, he has to work tomorrow, so he’ll go to bed really early. Let me drop midget here off and say goodnight to him, and I’ll be right back.”

It takes him about five minutes to return, sans Brutus, and his cheeks are flushed and his lips a little swollen, which I can’t help smirking at. He catches my expression as he gets back in the car.

“Shut it, Kirschstein.”

“Shut what, Zacharius? I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I wait until his belt is buckled and then pull out into the street.

“Yeah yeah, sure you don’t.” He lets out a breath that’s half sigh, half laugh. “ _God_ , I love that man!”

Just when I thought it wouldn’t be possible for Reiner to charm me any more, he goes and does something like that. I can’t even feel jealous of him, not when he’s looking so beatifically happy and pleased with himself.

“Have you guys been together for a long time?”

“Seven years, on and off.”

That answer surprises me—on and off? Hitch and I were on and off (now permanently off, if her updates on Facebook extolling Annie’s many virtues are any indication), and we were never like Reiner and Bertolt. Reiner catches the look on my face, and explains. 

“We’ve known each other since high school, when we were both sixteen, but we weren’t together until we were twenty. Then when I was in the service, we took a break. My idea, not his.”

“You weren’t ready to commit?”

“God, no!” He sounds honestly perplexed by that notion. “If I’d known he was interested, I would’ve married Bertolt right after high school graduation! But I didn’t want him to be with someone who might not come back from overseas, you know? He was just starting to get his baking thing figured out, and he didn’t need that chain around his neck.”

I nod; that makes much more sense. “So why aren’t you married now?”

“Not for lack of trying, believe me.” Reiner leans back in the seat and crosses his arms over his chest, adopting the same posture he’d had when he was thinking I might fight him about declawing. “Bertolt isn’t ready yet. _I_ am, but you can’t rush these things, you know? It’ll be right when it’s right, and until then…” He shrugs. “Until then, I get to go home to the most amazing guy in the world, and one of these days he’ll say yes when I ask him to marry me. Speaking of which…”

My hands tense on the steering wheel. Speaking of which _what_? If the next thing out of his mouth is something about Marco and I, I’m going to scream.

Reiner puts three cookies wrapped in some Saran wrap on the dashboard. “Bert says those are for you.”

“Oh my god.” My laughter is a little high, a little edgy, but it’s mostly relief. “Does he just have random cookies floating around?”

“Nah.” Reiner settles back into his seat. “He knew we were hanging out later and brought those home from the bakery. Said he had a few extras in the batch he made today.”

“That’s… that’s really sweet of him.” I’m glad the car is kind of dark, because I can’t even imagine the look I have on my face right now. I don’t know what I did to deserve having guys like this suddenly appear in my life, but I’m glad I did it.

“He’s a sweet guy.” Reiner lapses into companionable silence, and I keep driving. He doesn’t direct me to any particular bar, and I’m not familiar with this part of the city, so I head to the highway and start driving north, towards my part of town.

“So what made you decide to take in Parvati?”

I glance across the car, my eyes narrowed in suspicion, but Reiner has his eyes closed, almost looking like he’s dozing. This probably isn’t a set-up.

“I don’t know, really.” Maybe not the answer he wants, but an honest one. “I came over to see her, and I met Marco’s other cats first.” I laugh a little at the memory. “Aisha almost scared the shit out of me.”

Reiner chuckles, a low, comforting rumble. “Yeah, that flinging herself at Marco thing is pretty startling if you’re not expecting it.”

“I didn’t know cats were that excited to see their owners.” 

“You’d be surprised. Cats can be really affectionate.”

“All the cats I’ve seen in movies or on TV don’t really interact with anyone all that much. Aisha and Parvati are more like dogs.”

I don’t look over, but I can feel Reiner crack an eye and look at me. “You’ve got a lot to learn, then. But Parvati is a sweetheart, she’ll be a good starter cat.”

“I hope so.”

“And besides,” I can hear the grin in his voice, “if you have any problems, you can always ask Marco. Or me. But probably Marco first.”

There’s really nothing to say to that, and I stay quiet the rest of the way to the bar, while Reiner grins smugly in the seat next to me.

The bar I choose is one of my favorites, old and full of dark wood, quiet and not rowdy. It’s full of hipsters, but they’re the quiet, contemplative type, more prone to pecking away on an Apple laptop in a secluded booth than waxing poetic about the latest issue of an underground zine or their Kickstarter microbrews. Reiner raises an eyebrow as we walk in, but he’s socially savvy enough to glide right in, to adjust himself to fit in with everyone around him.

“Why don’t you go choose a booth and I’ll get your drink? What do you want?”

“Sounds good. And something dark, please, but not Guiness.”

“Got it.” We separate, and I stroll up to the bar. Samuel is working tonight, and I can’t help dropping an exaggerated wink at him. There may have been some closing-down-the-bar kissing and groping in our shared past, and by may have been, I mean there definitely has been. He rolls his eyes, but then smiles as I approach, and sets down the mug he’d been polishing.

“What brings you around? Haven’t seen you in awhile.”

“Eh, work.” I wave a hand vaguely. “You know how it is.”

“That’s a shame.” He leans over the bar, dropping his gaze pointedly to my collarbone and lowering his voice. “I’ve missed you.”

Once, that would have sent a shiver up my spine and blood pouring into my cock, but now, I just shrug a little and affect my best apologetic tone. “Like I said… work.”

Samuel straightens up, no longer looking so inviting, but fortunately not looking hurt either. What we’d had had been fun and entertaining at the time, but now when I look at him, all I can think about is Marco. I haven’t gotten laid in weeks, and I could probably finagle my way into his bed still, if I were so inclined, but I’d be thinking about someone else the whole time. That’s not fair to Samuel, who is genuinely a nice guy, and it’s better to let him down gently than to string him along.

Samuel jerks his chin towards a corner of the bar, and I glance over my shoulder, seeing that Reiner has claimed an empty booth and is currently busily texting away. “You hooked up with the beef on the hoof over there?”

“No.” I start laughing, the idea is so ludicrous, and Samuel joins me after a moment. Thank god, he’s decided to be cool about this whole thing. “God, _no_. He’s practically married, probably texting his sweetie even as we speak.”

“Okay.” That’s good enough for Samuel, and he starts drawing a beer off the tap, nodding when I hold up two fingers. I’m a Newcastle man myself, and hopefully that’s dark enough for Reiner.

Samuel slides the two beers across the bar, and I hand him a twenty and a ten, waving away his offer of change. I’m not buying him off, not exactly, but a little extra cash never hurts when you’re turning down the possibility of swapping spit and handjobs with someone. He pockets the ten without a word, and tells me, as I’m leaving, “If you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.”

I nod, letting him save face. Poor Samuel… he can’t compete with Marco, not on any level, but he’s not a bad guy. He deserves someone nice, and I start mentally combing through my Rolodex, wondering who I know that could be a good match for him.

Reiner sets his phone aside as soon as I sit down, and lifts his glass. “Cheers. To new friends and new cats.”

“To my feline learning curve.” We clink glasses and drink, and if he doesn’t like Newcastle, he doesn’t say anything.

“So,” I say as I set my beer down, feeling the alcohol warm and bloom in my stomach, “how’d you decide to be a vet?”

Reiner chuckles, wiping foam off his upper lip. “It was basically a foregone conclusion. I grew up hanging around my dad’s practice, and I never wanted to do anything else.” He considers. “Except ride a dinosaur, and the technology for that just isn’t here yet.”

“Who _doesn’t_ want to ride a dinosaur?” Only crazy people, that’s who. I smile at him, though, and tilt my head to the side. “How’d the military fit into all that?”

He waves a hand. “My uncle’s in the service, so that was my second biggest influence as a little guy. Then my dad remarried when I was eight and had more kids, and I knew it wouldn’t be fair to expect them to pay for four college educations. ROTC paid for my undergrad, and a commitment of a year overseas paid for my vet degree.” He shrugs, and looks a little pensive. “I don’t _regret_ my service, but being military as a career isn’t for me. Much to my uncle’s disappointment and dad’s delight.”

“That’s… kind of amazing.” I’m genuinely impressed, and a little jealous. Knowing what he wants, from such a young age, and then going out and getting it… it’s a sense of devotion that’s completely foreign to me. “And you like being a vet?”

“I love it,” he answers instantly, without a moment’s hesitation. “Wouldn’t do anything else.”

I nod, and study my beer. Was I ever this excited about my job, this passionate? Did I ever get this excited over pixels and color codes and making a website look slick? I can’t remember, and that probably tells me all I need to know.

Reiner seems to sense my mood, and lets me mull things over for awhile, drinking his beer quietly and looking around the bar. “Do they ever play matches here?”

I look up, grateful for the change in subject, and narrow my eyes at him. “Now, are you talking about football or _football_?”

“Football football,” he responds, looking offended. “You _better_ not tell me you think I watch that American football crap!”

“Christ, no!” I slap my hand down on our booth, pleased by this change of topic. “That’s football for dumbasses who don’t know a _real_ game!”

“Damn straight.” He looks immensely pleased too, although he looks back and forth before leaning forward and whispering to me, “Although I have been known to watch the Trost Titans when there isn’t a good match on.”

“Well yeah, that’s different. But only when there isn’t a real match on.” I laugh, surprised and delighted at how we’re both exactly on the same page about this. “Oh man, I can’t believe you like actual football.”

“We should watch matches together sometime,” he offers, and I’m nodding almost before he finishes speaking.

“Yeah, for sure! My boys from Lyon are playing next weekend.”

Reiner freezes, and his eyes go wide. “Lyon,” he repeats, the word like a stone in his mouth. “With a last name like Kirschstein, and you support _Lyon_?”

“Well, _yeah_.” I glare at him, suddenly achingly aware of where this is going. “As you may have noticed, my first name is Jean, not Johan. Why?”

“Because… my boys from Munich are going to kick your boys all over the field.”

“Oh, dammit!” I wad up a napkin and throw it at him while he roars with laughter. “Figures!”

~*~

Reiner drinks two more beers before we leave, and he’s pleasantly buzzed, his pale skin flushed and his steps a little awkward, when we walk out to the car an hour and a half later. I stopped after one, and Reiner leans on my shoulder as I escort him to Adelaide.

“You going to be okay to work tomorrow?”

He laughs and shrugs. “I’ll be fine. I’m gonna go home and drink a lot of water and take a shower, and I’ll be good in the morning.”

He keeps up a running, gently rambling commentary as we drive back to the south side of town, looking out the window and commenting on everything he sees. I’m thinking he’s not as drunk as he’s acting and is doing this more for my amusement than any other reason, but I’m okay with that. It’s been a surprisingly pleasant evening, and after much debate, we have a plan to watch the game at my place next week.

“You’re doing Parvati’s surgery on Saturday?”

“Yes.” He sits up, suddenly bright-eyed and sober. “Don’t worry, my dad will be right there if anything goes wrong, which it won’t, and I’ve done hundreds of spays before. She’ll be just fine.”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure she will be.” Marco trusts Reiner’s skill, and that’s good enough for me. “I’m just wondering when I can pick her up?”

“Mmmm, usually she’d go back to Marco’s for recovery, but you’ve already filled out all the paperwork at the shelter, right?”

“Yes.” Marco hassled me over Facebook all week to make sure I got it done. “She doesn’t have to go back to the shelter, does she?”

“Usually, yeah, but they trust Marco over there, and he spoke up for you.” Reiner shoots me a knowing glance, and I suddenly pay close attention to the road. “You can take her home right from the clinic if you want. In fact,” and he suddenly sounds excited, “Marco usually waits at the clinic while his fosters are getting their surgeries done. You should go with him!”

“He what?” This is brand new information, and when we stop at a red light, I give Reiner my full attention.

“He brings his fosters to the clinic and then waits in the waiting room until their surgeries are done.” Reiner sounds a little in awe of this, and also very proud. “Most people just drop their animals off and pick them up later in the day, but Marco waits during the surgery, and then stays with them when they’re coming out of anesthetic.”

“Wow.” Is it possible for this guy to get any better? I can’t help smiling a little, looking down at my hands on Adelaide’s steering wheel, and my chest fills with a warmth that alcohol can’t even come close to approximating.

“You should wait with him.”

“What?”

“Wait with him in the clinic.” Reiner reaches across the car and claps his hand on my shoulder, and in the streetlights, his eyes are bright and sparkling. “He’d really like that, and then you could take Parvati home when she woke up.”

I’m beginning to think that Reiner was a matchmaker in a previous life. Not that I’m ungrateful, though, since this is a damn good idea. “You think he’d mind?”

“I think he’d love it.” Reiner takes his hand away and sits back, closing his eyes. “Especially if it was you.”

And really, I don’t need any more convincing than that. “I’ll talk to him about it at yoga tomorrow.”

“Good call.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cat bed Jean found looks [like this](http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CdSrZNebh3A/R35AagEapBI/AAAAAAAAAbE/SDRuLDvHmKg/s320/cat+bed.jpg).
> 
> Trost, in my head, bears a vague resemblance to Chicago. Reiner, Bertolt, Marco, and the yoga studio are all south of the Loop, while Jean and Hitch live around the Miracle Mile. Jean is driving somewhere in-between in this chapter, probably somewhere near the museums or Soldier’s Field.
> 
> Jinae would be somewhere in southern Wisconsin… easy driving distance but a world away.
> 
>  
> 
> Also! Chapter 9 now has a piece of artwork in it, drawn by the lovely and talented [ Johanna the Mad](http://johannathemad.tumblr.com). Go and look at it, it's amazing!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonding.

“Can you pull your hips back towards me, Jean? Is it okay if I adjust you?”

I grunt, feeling sweat drip down the sides of my face. What Marco is asking sounds impossible, and as much as I’d like to get sweaty and thrust my hips back towards him, I imagined it under very different circumstances. Mainly ones where we’re alone, and both naked, and I’m not trying to contort myself into a goddamn pretzel.

“Sure,” I pant, preparing myself for something I know is going to suck. “Go ahead.”

Marco lays his hands on my hips, and I really hope it’s not my imagination that he lets them linger there a moment, that the way he curls them over my hipbones isn’t entirely teacher-student appropriate. From where I have my head—somewhere down near my thigh—I can see Bertolt, once again dutifully called over to assist, holding the yoga pose much better than I, and I catch a glimpse of him smiling before he turns his face and looks towards the ceiling. Is everyone in on this except Marco? Is he the only one who doesn’t know how badly I want him?

Before I have a chance to hiss at Bertolt, Marco clamps down on my hips and gently tugs them backwards, and I gasp as something shifts in my back and I feel my vertebra release and pop open, one after another. Just like that, my entire upper body sinks down towards the floor, my chest twists around to open towards the ceiling, and I’m boggling up at Marco, shocked at how different this feels. He smiles brightly and laughs, his hands still on my hips. “See? I knew you could do it.”

“Holy shit.” It feels like my ear is nearly touching my knee, which is _not_ where it normally belongs, and I can hardly even appreciate the fact that my face is at the perfect level with Marco’s crotch. Hardly, but I’m not dead, especially not when Marco walks around in front of me to gently push on my shoulder. I sneak an eyeful while Marco is moving my arms around, and there is a very distinct, very nicely sized bulge at the front of Marco’s yoga pants, and I swear that the drool flooding my mouth is just from being upside down.

From across the room, I hear a polite little cough, and when I look over, Hitch is shooting me a thumbs up. Even Annie, standing beside her, looks mildly interested in what’s going on, and Reiner is leaning on the doorframe and grinning like a fool. I’d like to say I’m embarrassed about being caught checking out Marco’s package, but I’m not. Anyone else in my position would do the same.

“Okay, can you come up now?” 

Bertolt rises in front of me, his arms out, graceful and lithe as a dancer. I move more like a goose waddling after bread crumbs on land, and Marco moves his hands back to my hips, helping me balance as I stand. I’m normally not a klutzy person, but coming back to standing straight after having your face near your knee requires more core strength than I normally use, and having those broad, warm hands on my hips doesn’t exactly help me concentrate. I rise up, and we’re facing each other, standing so close I can feel the heat from his body, and I realize I have to tilt my neck back a little to look up into his face. He just smiles, seemingly not bothered at all by our vicinity, but his hands move a little on my hips in a way that seems like a caress, and it’s suddenly hard to breathe.

“All right, let’s go down on the other side, see if you can pull your hips back on your own…”

Bertolt sinks down into the posture, and I try to emulate his smooth transition. I think I do okay, only flopping a little at the very end, and Marco is beaming down at me when I get myself adjusted and turned towards the ceiling.

“Perfect!” He leans forward a little, and I think for one crazy moment he’s going to kiss me, but then he just puts one hand on my lower belly and straightens out my waist. That’s enough, though, to get my engines revving, to get me imagining what it would be like if he trailed that hand lower, down to the waistband on my shorts and then underneath them, tracing down my treasure trail and…

And I need to stop that right now, or I’m going to pop a boner that even my baggy shorts can’t hide.

Marco has me hold the posture for five long, agonizing breaths, agonizing because his crotch is _so damn close_ , then tells me to rise back up. I manage to get back upright with less wobbling than before, and I grin as soon as we’re face level again. “That was better, huh?”

“Much better.” He looks just as happy as I feel, like my accomplishment means just as much to him as it does to me, and having someone _believe_ in me like this is exhilarating. I know I have support, from my mom and family and friends, but no one that’s just so damn happy for me, about something as simple as standing up without falling over, and I have to fight the urge to lean in and kiss him all over again.

Marco chooses that exact moment, when I’m already warring with myself, when I’m already weak and wanting to give in to temptation, to lift one of his hands and cup the back of my neck. As I go still all over in surprise, he leans in and bumps our foreheads together, and we’re so close that I can count every one of his eyelashes and the freckles that spread out around them. We’re so close I can feel his breath on my lips, so close that I can see how he has a patch of skin with no freckles at all beside his right eye, and how the color of his right iris is one or two shades lighter than his left one.

“I’m so proud of you, Jean,” he says softly, and I forget everything around us, forget that there are other people in the room, forget that we’re standing right in front of a wall-length mirror, forget everything except how I could lose myself in those eyes, and in that voice. I could drown in him, if he gave me half a chance.

Hell, I’m drowning already.

Marco holds me close to him for another moment or two, for not nearly long enough, and if I wasn’t plagued with uncertainty, I would think he was trying to psyche himself up to kiss me. I mean, we’re in a great position for it already! It wouldn’t be hard to just go for it! He doesn’t, though, and after what feels like a long time but is probably only a few seconds, he leans back out of my space. I hear a soft, collective sigh from the other side of the room, and Marco turns to look at our friends, his hand still on the back of my neck.

“I’m sorry, are we keeping you waiting?” From anyone else, that would sound bitchy, but Marco just sounds genuinely concerned, like he’s worried that we’re keeping other people from having fun.

Hitch rolls her eyes at him and starts to open her mouth, but then Annie elbows her in the ribs. Whatever Hitch was going to say comes out in a squawk, and Reiner takes that moment to step forward from the doorframe. “Nah, we’re good, Marco. You two do whatever you need.”  
 Hitch mutters something I can’t catch, and Annie shushes her. When Marco turns back to me, his cheeks are stained red, like he’s embarrassed, and his hand drops from my neck to my shoulder. “What do you think, do you want to try anything else today?”

Lots of things. I can think of all kinds of things I’d like to do to Marco, but my voice betrays me and I can’t express any of them. Instead, I shake my head. “No, I think… I think if I try anything else, my hamstrings are going to explode.”

That’s the right thing to say; Marco throws his head back and laughs like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard, and I’m treated to the sight of the line of his throat, long and elegant and with his pulse beating at the base of it, and my throat clicks dryly as I swallow. “They won’t explode,” he tells me warmly, and squeezes my shoulder before letting it go. Behind him, Bertolt has straightened up and been watching us with interest, and he looks downcast and worried when Marco steps away from me.

“Hey, Marco!” Hitch calls, her voice light and flirty. “You coming for smoothies tonight?

Marco looks over his shoulder at me, his eyebrows raised expectantly, and my heart flutters in my chest. It’s like he’s asking permission, like he’s checking in to see what I’m doing before he answers; it’s like we’re a couple. Before I can do anything besides awkwardly get my feet back under me from my yoga stance, he’s already turning around and shaking his head. “Sorry, Hitch, not tonight. Duty calls back home.”

“What kind of duty?” she demands, before her eyebrows lift and disappear under her fringe and she gets that mischievous, devil-may-care grin that I know so well on her face. “Horse duty?”

“No?” Marco looks confused, thank god, and I shoot Hitch a look filled with a thousand daggers. “One of my cats is having surgery tomorrow.” He looks back at me, and his expression is warm and sweet again. “After tomorrow, she’ll be Jean’s cat.”

I smile at him, disappointed our private moment is over but also knowing that I had no idea what I might have done, people watching or not, if it had continued. “I wanted to talk to you about that, actually.”

“Nothing bad, right?” He looks unexpectedly worried, and behind him, Reiner takes a step forward, like Parvati might need two adult men to defend her honor.

“No, nothing bad. Give you a ride home and we’ll talk about it?” Does he even have a car? I don’t think he does, or at least he never uses it to get to the studio.

“You’ll miss smoothies,” Marco points out.

“Don’t worry about it,” Annie breaks in, and although her voice is soft, it carries a tone of command all the same. She looks at Hitch, and I swear she almost seems like she might consider smiling at some point in the near future. “I suddenly feel like I’d rather go dancing tonight anyway.”

“You can borrow one of my dresses!” Hitch jumps on the possibility, and she and Annie leave the studio arm in arm, Hitch twittering about where they’ll go and what they’ll wear, and Annie answering in a soft, even tone.

“I have a big cake to work on tomorrow,” Bertolt tells Reiner as he wipes the sweat off his face. “I think I’d rather have an early night.”

“Yeah.” Reiner stretches, big and exaggerated, and ends up with an arm around Bertolt’s shoulders, even though he has to stretch up to pull it off. “Lots of surgeries tomorrow.” He looks across the room at me, making sure Marco won’t notice, and drops a big wink in my direction. “We should probably just go home and go to bed.”

The corners of Bertolt’s mouth twitch upwards into a knowing smile, and something that’s almost like telepathy passes between the two of them as Bertolt links his arm around Reiner’s waist, much to Reiner’s obvious delight. “Sorry, Marco,” he says, somehow managing to sound apologetic and genuine even as Reiner starts stroking the back of his neck and looking at him like he wants to eat him.

“It’s fine.” Marco finishes rolling up his mat and tosses it over his shoulder, coming back to stand at my side. “Do you mind, Jean? Giving me a ride home?”

Baby, I’ll give you so many kinds of rides it’ll make your head explode. “It’s no trouble at all.”

With everyone’s destinations decided, we all troop outside, Annie and Hitch leading the way, arm in arm with their heads together, giggling and talking in hushed tones. Bertolt waves goodbye as he and Reiner head towards their car, and Marco waves back as he strolls towards Adelaide. “You didn’t have any plans for tonight, did you?” he asks as I unlock his door to let him in, and the concern and consideration in his voice makes my heart melt in my chest. 

“Nah, just yoga and whatever people wanted to do afterwards.” Once upon a time, I’d be trolling bars and hitting up clubs on a Friday night, but now, I’m kind of hoping I’ll get invited up to Marco’s to hang out, maybe order some take-in and play more video games. Maybe do something a little more intimate than video games.

As if he’s reading my mind, Marco sighs. “I’m sorry, we can’t really hang out tonight. I mean, we could, but the cats are going to be super annoying and I don’t think you’d enjoy being around them.”

“Oh?” I start Adelaide and pull out of the lot, pointing her in the direction of Marco’s apartment. “Why’s that?”

“With Parvati’s surgery tomorrow, I have to take her food and water away at eight o’clock. Aisha and Loaf can still eat, but they’ll have to be confined to my bedroom with their food and boxes, and no one will be happy about it.” He sighs again and flops back in his seat, looking defeated. “I’m anticipating a lot of yowling and whining tonight.”

“Well, yeah, I’d be mad too if you took my food.” Poor Parvati. I consider offering to come up and cuddle her anyway, but that would imply I’m expecting to spend the night again, and I don’t want to seem too pushy. Let him come to you, Eren said. It makes sense, it really does. But why does it have to be so hard?

We drive in silence for awhile, going through two streetlights before I speak up again. “How are you getting her to the office tomorrow?”

“On the subway.” Marco sounds dejected over the idea. “She’ll cry and howl and annoy everyone on board, but what can you do?”

Yessss, that’s exactly the answer I was hoping for. Play it cool now, Kirschtein, nice and slick. “Do you want a ride?”

He immediately tries to turn me down, just like I thought he would. “Oh no, Jean, you don’t have to do that, I have to take her in super early…”

“Hey, she’s going to be my cat soon, right?” That shuts him up, and I can tell he’s watching me with wide eyes. “It’s fine, really. I’ll pick you guys up, take you to the office, and then we can go have breakfast or something while she’s having her surgery.”

“I usually stay in the clinic while they’re being operated on.” He sounds almost embarrassed by this admission. “I know it’s silly, but I want the first face they see when they wake up to be a friendly one.”

“That’s not silly at all.” It’s a little silly, they’re _cats_ , I don’t know how much they care, but it’s more noble than anything else. “So we’ll hang out in the clinic.” I stop at a red light and turn to him, dropping a quick wink his way. “Besides, I still owe you a breakfast. I can make one and bring it to you.”

That makes him laugh. “You don’t have to do that.”

“But I want to.” And I do. My mom’s omelet recipe is top notch, and she made sure I mastered it before I left home. “I could even bring some for Reiner and his dad.”

“Don’t make that promise; you’ve seen Reiner eat, and his dad is even worse.”

“So I’ll bring a _lot_ of breakfast.” Shit, I’m going to have to go to the grocery store before I go home. “What time should I pick you up?”

“Seven.” His voice is soft, and full of a warmth that I’m pretty sure I don’t deserve. “Thank you, Jean. This’ll be a big help tomorrow.”

“It’s my pleasure.” And all too soon, I’m pulling up in front of his building and putting Adelaide into park, turning in my seat so I’m facing him. “Thanks for your help in yoga today.”

“You’re welcome.” He’s lingering, making no move to get out of the car, and he’s got his shoulders twisted around towards me. I realize, for a moment, that our chests and hearts are facing each other, and I wonder if he can hear how mine is beating faster from his proximity. He pauses, biting his lower lip, then reaches across the back of Adelaide’s seat and puts his hand on my shoulder. “I’m really glad I met you.”

I have to swallow before I can answer, my throat gone suddenly dry. “I am too.”

He smiles at that, the shadows playing off his face, and I remember how he’d bumped our foreheads together in the studio, how close we’d been and how loaded with potential that moment had been. He leaves his hand on my shoulder. “I had a dream about you last night.”

“You did?” Please say it was a sex dream, please say it was a sex dream, please say it was a sex dream… 

‘Yeah.” He closes his eyes, remembering, and I watch the contours of his face as he speaks, memorizing the curve of his cheek and the way he purses his lips around the words. “We were in a field somewhere, and sitting up in a tree.” He smiles a little, and I smile too. He’s talking about a dream, but it’s weird, I feel like I can actually _see_ the tree, and the field spreading out around it. “We were laughing, because we were supposed to be doing something else, but instead we were up in this tree. You had some bread, and I had some butter in a napkin, and we were just… just hanging out in this tree and laughing and eating together.”

He opens his eyes, huge and dark in the shadows, and I swear I can _feel_ his dream. It’s like I’m remembering it too, like I can feel the tree’s branches under my ass, and see the sunlight dappling across his cheeks as it filters through the leaves. It’s like I was there too, like it’s a memory and not someone else’s dream, and I realize this isn’t the first time I’ve had this weird kind of deja vu around Marco. It should be frightening, but it’s not. It feels right in a way I can’t explain, like a wrong for a long time ago is being set right.

“I promise I’ll bring you a nicer breakfast than bread and butter tomorrow,” I tell him, and he laughs.

“No, it wasn’t a bad thing! It was… it was a really nice dream.” He starts running his fingers idly up and down my arm, over my shoulder and bicep, and I shift it, putting it on the back of the seat and stretching it out towards him. He holds still until my hand is halfway towards him, then pulls his hand back and catches mine, entwining our fingers together. The death of me… he’s going to be the death of me. He’s looking down now, and I swear I can see a faint hint of color rising in his cheeks. 

I let the moment stretch, let him hold my hand—because that’s exactly what he’s doing, he’s holding my damn hand, like we’re in middle school and this is the only way we know to show that we like each other—and I’m about to open my mouth and say something, probably something stupid, when he looks up and opens the car door. “Bye, Jean. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Seven AM, right?”

“Yeah.” I try to hide the disappointment in my voice. Something almost happened there, and then it didn’t, and that’s the story of my life these days. “Seven AM.”

Marco smiles, and it’s almost apologetic. He felt it too, felt the potential that had been in the car, and let it get away. Maybe he’s really _not_ into it, maybe he’s not into me, but then why would he be telling me about the dream he had about the two of us? “I’ll bring tea and the cat.”

He lifts my hand then, brings it to his mouth, and before my brain has even registered what’s going on, he’s kissed it, pressing his lips on the back of it, near where my thumb joins my palm, and his lips are as warm and soft as I thought they’d be. “Goodnight, Jean.”

And then he’s out of the car, and I’m sitting there like an idiot, my hand still extended towards the passenger side seat, my fingers still held in the shape of his hand. “Goodnight… Marco,” I manage, and he flashes me one more quick smile before carefully closing Adelaide’s door and heading into his building.

He’s inside and out of sight before I can draw myself back together, and I pull my hand back, holding it in front of my face and staring at it. _He kissed me_. It was my hand, yeah, but he kissed me. People don’t do that anymore, they don’t just randomly kiss other people, not unless they’re interested in them, and I start laughing. I sit in Adelaide and laugh, and bring my hand to my mouth and laugh into it, feeling the place where he kissed me on the back like a burning brand. Still laughing, still holding my hand near my mouth, I scramble for my phone and fire off a text message, sharing news that just needs to be shared.

**Jean Kirschtein: he kissed me!**

I drop the phone onto the passenger side seat—still warm from Marco’s body, and god, now my car smells like him, and it’s better than any air freshener I’ve ever known—and crane my neck to look up towards Marco’s window. It’s illuminated, lit from within, and he’s standing in front of it, cradling Parvati to his chest and watching me. I grin broadly and wave, and he smiles right back, lifting one of Parvati’s paws to wave back at me, and I can’t stop smiling the whole time I drive home, even when I have to immediately turn around and go to the grocery store to pick up supplies for tomorrow’s breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap, an update with both yoga AND Marco in it? What's the world coming to?
> 
> Surprise Friday update! I'm going to be traveling next week and won't be around to update on Monday, so I managed to get this done and up a little early. That said, because of said travel, there won't be an update the week after next. I'll need some time to get a new chapter written after my vacation!
> 
> See you next time! :D


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just bros being bros, taking a kitten to the vet.

I pull up in front of Marco’s building at seven AM sharp the next morning. It’s ungodly, being up this early on a weekend, but I’ve already been up for an hour and a half and, amazingly, my mood isn’t complete shit. In fact, I’ve been grinning ever since my alarm went off, and I woke up to several texts from Eren.

**Eren Jaeger: new # who dis  
Eren Jaeger: WHAT  
Eren Jaeger: HE FUCKIN KISSED U?!!!  
Eren Jaeger: ur lying**

**Jean Kirschtein: nope not lying  
Jean Kirschtein: he totally kissed me**

**Eren Jaeger: no he didn’t**

**Jean Kirschtein: look were you there? i don’t think so**

**Eren Jaeger: holy shit  
Eren Jaeger: he really DID kiss u**

**Jean Kirschtein: i said he did!!  
Jean Kirschtein: well  
Jean Kirschtein: on the hand**

**Eren Jaeger: THAT DOESNT COUNT YOU LYING LIAR**

**Jean Kirschtein: IT TOTALLY COUNTS WHAT DO U KNOW**

We went back and forth like that for awhile, until I had to get up and make my omelets. I got a saucy, flippant **don’t scare him off don’t b 2 aggressive** as Eren’s send-off, and then I lost myself for a surprisingly pleasant forty minutes of making omelets. Fortunately, I have exactly four pieces of Tupperware, including the one I never gave back to Bertolt, so I have just enough storage to get everything over. I do not, however, have a bag to carry it all in, and it’s not going in one of my messenger bags, so I shove it all in a plastic grocery sack and carry it to the car.

Marco is standing in his window, watching the street, and I wave up at him as I pull in front of his building. He waves back and then disappears, and I fiddle with the music in the car as I wait for him. Something soothing, I’m thinking, since both Marco and Parvati are likely to be upset today. I settle on some Bach motets, and lean back to wait.

Marco appears a few moments later, juggling a cat carrier, a backpack, and a giant thermos. Why he didn’t just put it in the backpack I’ll never know, and as I lean across the seat and push the door open for him, I can hear Parvati complaining loudly from her carrier.

“Hi!” Marco says brightly as he folds himself and all his gear into the car. He looks a little rough, like it was a long night, and if Parvati yelled this loud all night long, I imagine that it was.

“Hey.” He puts the carrier on the seat between us, and I duck down, seeing a hateful, squinting yellow eye peering out. “Hey there, little P.” I start to stick my finger through the holes in the side of the carrier, ignoring Marco’s fretful “Be careful, Jean, she might bite you!” and after some careful sniffing, Parvati rubs her face roughly across my finger and starts mewing up at me.

“Son of a gun.” Marco collapses back into his seat, smiling ruefully. “She hasn’t shut up since I took the food away last night, she hid from me this morning, and when I fished her out from under the couch, she scratched me. Ten seconds with you, and she’s quiet and purring.”

He’s right, Parvati has started a little half-hearted rumble, and I crook my finger to scratch behind one of her ears. I look up at him, giving him my best sidelong grin, and shrug one shoulder. “What can I say… I’ve always had a way with the ladies.”

He grins right back at me. “Not according to Hitch.”

“What?” What the hell, Hitch? This is entirely against the bro code. I pull my finger back, and Parvati starts yelling again. “What’d she tell you, don’t believe any of it.”

He keeps grinning, impish and mysterious all at the same time. “Just answered a few questions for me, that’s all.”

“I would’ve answered your questions.” Hold on here… he was asking Hitch questions about me? He was doing recon? And Hitch must not have told him anything _too_ awful, because he’s still here. Maybe I don’t have to revoke her bro code license just yet.

“Not these questions.” I shoot him a sharp look, certain that I’m looking all suspicious and probably like a criminal, but he just smiles placidly back and holds up his thermos. “Tea?”

“Not yet, I’ll drink it when we’re there.” I pull Adelaide back out into the street and get us going, so he’s nice and trapped, before starting up again. “ _What_ kind of questions?”

Marco chortles, his attention all on Parvati and trying, unsuccessfully, to keep her quiet. “The kind you ask someone’s best friend when…”

“When _what_?” I demand as he trails off.

“Nothing. It’s not important.” He sounds a little embarrassed now. Good. Serves him right for tormenting me like this.

“Hmph.” I huff a little, but I’m not really too mad or put out. I’ll just text Hitch later and she’ll tell me what’s going on; I know all the strategies for getting information out of her. One of the best ones is a bribe of a pint of Cherry Garcia.

Parvati complains loudly as I pull onto the freeway, and Marco gives me directions to the clinic. Surprisingly, it’s on the north side of town, where the city of Trost proper ends and it starts becoming the suburbs. We don’t end up going out as far as Shingashina—which is completely in the boonies, way out of the way—but it’s pretty damn close.

“Why does Reiner live all the way down on the south side if he works here?” I ask as I help Marco get everything out of the car. “Seems like it’d be a really long commute.”

“He grew up around here, and this is his dad’s practice.” Marco juggles the carrier and his backpack, and I take charge of the thermos, my bag of Tupperware, and my messenger bag that I’ve taken to carrying around again the last couple of weeks. It has a sketchbook and some colored pencils in it, and I thought I might practice drawing some of the animals at the clinic today. “They live on the south side because it’s really close to Bertolt’s bakery; he can walk to work from their place.”

“Oh.”

Marco must hear the doubt in my voice, because he looks up and smiles a little. “I also think Reiner wanted to get away from the small town lifestyle.”

I nod; I can appreciate that. I’d say more, but then Marco starts walking towards the clinic. He’s wearing a pair of baggy, vaguely Asian style pants today that end a couple of inches below his knees, and I catch another tantalizing glimpse of the tattoo on his calf. I can tell today that it’s green, and fragmented, smaller pieces blending together into a whole, and that’s frankly a lot more interesting than our friends’ living situation.

I jog to catch up. “Hey, Marco…”

“Yes?”

“What’s that tattoo on your leg?” It’s on his calf, it’s showing from under his pants, it can’t be something too personal that he won’t want to talk about, and besides, most of the people I know with tattoos love it when someone shows interest in them.

“Oh, it’s the…” He doesn’t get a chance to finish, because the door to the clinic swings open, and for a second, I think it’s Chewbacca standing there to greet us. Then I focus a little more and realize that no, it’s not a Wookie—although a Wookie would be _awesome_ —but a big, shaggy man, someone so tall and broad through the shoulders he makes Bertolt look petite. He looms over us, massive and imposing, long, messy blond bangs shot through with silver hanging over his eyes and a mustache and beard bristling over the lower half of his face, clothed in forest green scrubs, and silently reaches out one hand. I’m startled enough to be shocked into silence, but Marco just smiles and hands him the carrier. “Good morning!”

He takes the carrier, his massive hand dwarfing Marco’s, and makes some sound that’s probably a greeting, but not in any language I know. I inadvertently take a step behind Marco, who seems a lot more in control of the situation than myself, and it’s not cowardice, I swear, it’s just me letting him handle things. That’s a bad move, though, because it attracts the hulk’s attention, and he turns towards me.

I take a little half-step to the side, so I’m not completely in Marco’s shadow, and try to smile. “Hello.”

I’m pretty sure he’s looking at me; I can see something glittering behind the curtain of his hair, and he tilts his head back a bit, like he’s looking down his long nose at me. He makes a noise like he’s clearing his throat, and leans forward. Marco, the traitor, steps out of the way, and I start to lift my right hand, like maybe the hulk wants to shake it, even though he’s holding the cat carrier. But no, he has no interest in my hand, ignoring it completely in favor of leaning in and _sniffing_ me, sniffing me hard enough to make the shell of his nostril curl upwards, and I’m abruptly, absurdly glad I splashed on a little cologne this morning, the nice stuff that my mom picked out for me last Christmas.

The hulk must like the cologne, because he clears his throat and straightens up, and I swear I see a little smile dance across his face, although it’s hard to tell with all the hair he’s hiding behind. Then the hulk turns and walks into the clinic, taking the carrier with him, and Marco bursts out laughing.

“What the _fuck_?” I ask, and I sound more dazed than anything. “What just happened?”

Marco is laughing so hard he’s bent over at the waist, propping himself up with his hands on his knees. “Oh my god… your face…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, devilishly handsome and all that, whatever. _What_ was all that?”

That just makes him laugh harder, and I really hope he’s not laughing about my description of my own face. Honestly though, it’s beautiful seeing him laugh like this, and if it’s my face that’s done it, that’s okay. Marco’s gales of laughter are music to my ears, and I put my hand on his back to support him, since he looks like he’s about to fall over from laughing so hard. That must be the right move, because he flails out and catches my forearm, hanging on for dear life as he holds his stomach, and I’m content to just stand here and let him laugh it out.

“I take it you just met my dad.”

I turn my head towards the door, and Reiner’s standing in it, dressed in scrubs exactly like the hulk’s, his arms crossed over his chest against the early morning chill. He smiles and gestures us inside. “You need a little help there, Marco?”

Marco shakes his head and straightens up, although he keeps clinging to my arm, leaning on me for support, which is completely, one hundred percent okay with me. His eyes are streaming from laughing, his face is flushed, and he’s panting to catch his breath, but the huge smile on his face makes it all worthwhile. “No, thank you,” he says, wiping his eyes with his free hand. “I’m fine. But his face, Reiner!” And the memory sets him off again, giggling wildly, and I turn my attention to Reiner.

“He _sniffed_ me.”

“Yeah, he does that,” Reiner answers nonchalantly, like that’s a completely normal thing to do. “You guys coming inside or are you going to hang out in the parking lot all morning?”

I start dragging Marco up the steps to the clinic, and he comes along willingly enough, happy to let me lead. He adjusts his arm a little, slipping in through mine so that we’re arm in arm, like a pair of fine country gentlemen or something, and I’m more than happy to feel the heat of his body radiating against my arm.

Reiner holds the door open for us, stepping out of the way and raising a sardonic eyebrow at me, and then we’re inside, walking into a bright, cheery waiting room. One wall is painted with pictures of cats and dogs playing together, and while the style is pretty cartoonish, the art itself isn’t bad.

“My sister painted that,” Reiner tells me, noticing my interest.

“ _Annie_ painted that?” Annie does not strike me, in any way, as an arty type.

Reiner snorts. “What, are you kidding? No, my other sister. Annica.”

“Wait. So… you have one sister named Annie, and another one named Annica?”

He drops a wink at me. “Good thing we always called Annica by her full name and never Ann or Annie, huh?”

“I guess so.” Marco elbows me gently in the ribs, and I remember that Annie didn’t come to live with Reiner and his family until they were teenagers. Suddenly the whole thing makes a lot more sense, and I let Marco take over and lead me towards a pair of plastic chairs.

“We’ll just stay out here, Reiner, if that’s cool.”

“Sure, that’s fine.” Reiner lifts his head a little and sniffs the air, suddenly looking exactly like his dad. “What’d you bring with you?”

“Oh!” I hold up the plastic bag triumphantly. “I brought breakfast!”

“And I have tea!” Marco chimes in, settling himself down into one of the chairs.

Reiner looks back and forth between us, his expression caught somewhere between amused and incredulous, and then starts laughing. “So you two are going to have a little breakfast date out here in our waiting room?”

I start sputtering, having no idea how to respond to that—yes? I wish? god, I hope so?—but Marco cuts in smoothly, naturally, saving me from having to quantify what we’re doing. “Jean made breakfast for you and your dad, too.”

“He did?” Reiner forgets completely about this maybe being a date, or at least pretends to, and descends on the bag. “What’d you make?”

“Omelets.” I swat him away and pull out the two containers on the bottom, the ones with the bigger portions in them. “My mom’s recipe. Here, these are for the two of you.”

“Oh thank god, now Bertolt will stop asking me about that Tupperware.” He takes the containers, balancing them on one hand so he can pop the lid of the top one and smell it. “Oh shit, Jean, that smells amazing!”

“Thanks.” I can feel myself puff up with pride. “I’d have made one for Bertolt too, but they’re not good if you let them get cold.”

“Understood. He’ll just be happy to get his container back.” Reiner tucks the containers under one of his arms, and grins at Marco. “I’m a little jealous right now; you get to hang out up here and eat while I’m back there slaving over a sleeping cat.”

Marco smiles back, but he looks a little ill at ease, like the thought of Parvati going into surgery makes him uneasy. “Did she gain enough weight? Is she big enough for the operation?”

“She’s fine.” The hulk—Reiner’s dad—has made a reappearance, looming like a Wookie in the doorway that leads back to the surgery area, but his demeanor is softened by the fact that he’s carrying Parvati, having her tucked up under his arm the same way Reiner is carrying the breakfast containers. When she sees me, Parvati starts squirming and trying to get loose, and the hulk just tucks her further under his arm and pins her in place. She meows unhappily, and the hulk smiles down at her before turning his attention to me.

“You’re Jean.” 

Bless him, he even pronounces it right. “Yes, sir.”

He nods, once. “Pleasure to meet you. Thanks for breakfast.” Then he makes a jerking motion with his head at Reiner, and disappears to whence he came.

Reiner rolls his eyes. “You can call him Dr. Zacharius, or Mike, if you want to,” he tells me, then waves to us and follows his dad into the depths of the clinic, the door swinging shut behind him.

In the sudden silence of the waiting room, I exhale loudly and plop into a chair next to Marco. “Are all vets so… intense?”

“No, that’s just Dr. Zacharius.” I notice that Marco calls him by his full title, and make a note to do the same. No matter what Reiner might say, I can’t imagine calling anyone that intimidating by his first name. Marco’s voice is bright and happier than usual, and when I look over at him, he’s beaming at me. “Did you see how Parvati was trying to get to you?” He laughs, simultaneously joyous and relieved. “That cat _chose_ you, Jean! She’s yours now, no question.”

I chuckle a little and look down at my knees, unable to handle the full wattage of his smile. “I… I’m glad.” I find myself twisting the fabric of my pants, and try to force myself to stop. “I was afraid she wouldn’t like me.” And that would make Marco not like me, and now I’m in too deep, committed to a cat that I never even knew I wanted, and pining ever more desperately after Marco every day.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Marco’s hand sneak across the space between us and take mine, gently prying my fingers loose from my jeans and smoothing them out. It’s not as difficult as it should be; I relax as soon as he touches me, his touch like a balm, and once he has my hand out of a fist, he wraps it in his own, cradling it against my thigh. “It’ll be fine,” he says softly, encouragingly, and god, I would go to the ends of the earth for this man. “You’re going to take really good care of her, and give her a happy, healthy life.”

“I… I hope so.” I do hope that for Parvati, _I do_ , but the same applies to Marco. I wish I could tell him that, that if he was mine, I’d do everything in my power to make sure he was happy and loved and content for his entire life, but there’s no way for me to do it without sounding creepy as shit, so I swallow down my confession and squeeze his hand instead. “Thanks, though.”  “For what?” He sounds bemused, and squeezes my hand back.

“For letting me take your cat.”

He laughs again. “Jean, you’re the one doing me a favor here. I spent the entire time I had her worried that Parvati would be in the shelter forever and never get adopted, and then you said you’d take her. Now I _know_ she’ll be with someone who loves her, _and_ I can get regular updates about how she’s doing.” He nudges me with his shoulder. “That’s a hint, by the way. I want regular updates on Facebook about her.”

His dorkiness breaks through my reserve, and I snort laughter. “You want me to be one of those guys who posts pictures of his cat all day?”

“Yes.” Marco is completely serious, although when I glance over at him, his eyes are sparkling. “That’s exactly what I want.”

“I can do that.” I hesitate, then blurt out, “And if you want to come see her some time, you can do that too.”

“I can?” Now he sounds just plain delighted, and bumps me with his shoulder again. “That’d be amazing, I am definitely going to take you up on that.”

“It’ll be fine.” Shit, now I have to make sure my apartment looks nice, just in case Marco decides to come over and see Parvati. As much as I’d like to keep holding his hand, I reluctantly let it go—if I keep holding it, I’m going to try and kiss him, I won’t be able to help myself—and reach for the plastic bag on the floor. “Are you ready for breakfast?”

“Yes.” He starts digging in his backpack, coming up with his thermos and two hand-thrown clay cups. “You made omelets, you said?”

“Yeah.” I hand him a Tupperware and a fork, and he balances it on his leg while he pours a cup of tea. I’ve already had coffee today, but another cup of tea won’t kill me. He hands me the cup, and I swear he deliberately lets our fingers brush against each other again as I take it from him. I hurriedly take a sip of tea, nearly burning my tongue, and bring my knees up a little higher. Today was not the right day to wear skinny jeans.

Marco, fortunately, is oblivious. He pops the lid of his Tupperware and digs right in. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, trying to gauge his reaction. Considering the way his eyes light up after the first bite and the way he starts immediately shoveling the rest of it into his mouth, I think I did okay.

“You can put sausage in it if you want,” I tell him, getting started on my own omelet, “but then I remembered you bought vegetarian food before, and I wasn’t sure if you ate meat or not. So I left it out.”

“Oh my god, Jean,” Marco says through a mouthful of omelet, “this is _so good_!”

He wasn’t even listening. He’s being so damn endearing that I let it go, and just smile down at my food. “Thank you.”

Marco swallows, noisily, and I glance at him just in time to watch the motion of his throat as his adam’s apple bobs up and down. “You said it’s your mom’s recipe?”

“Yeah. She made sure I knew how to make it before I left home. For a long time, it was the only thing I could make that didn’t totally suck.” My current tally of Things I Can Cook That Don’t Totally Suck is around three, but there’s no need to tell him that. 

“It’s amazing.” Marco takes a sip of tea and clears his throat before digging back in. “And I’m only a vegetarian in the laziest possible sense. I try to avoid meat when I’m on my own, but you can’t exactly tell my mom you’re not going to eat her homecooking, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah. I know what you mean.” Do I ever. “I went through a phase as a teenager where I decided I wouldn’t eat potatoes. My mom was ready to kick me out of the house.”

Marco chortles. “Let me guess: blue hair, piercings, loud, obnoxious music, that was all whatever, whatever, but the moment you decided you weren’t eating potatoes!”

I burst into laughter, loud in the enclosed, echoing space. “Holy shit, how’d you know that?”

He winks at me. “I did the same thing, but with carbs. My mom was more upset about that than she was when I came out of the closet.”

Everything in the room freezes; it’s like we’re suddenly in the Matrix, and everything has slowed down to bullet time. I swear I can see every dust mote in the room, can hear the blood rushing through my body and my heartbeat picking up in my chest, can feel the individual muscle fibers in my neck twitch as I turn my head so I’m looking at Marco. He’s so beautiful, in the cheerful morning sunshine that illuminates the clinic’s waiting room turning his skin golden and making his eyes light up, and I could count every freckle, every eyelash, every pore, on his perfect face. I swallow, the sound gratingly loud to my ears, and ask “Came out of the closet?”

“Yeah.” He looks over at me, and I could swim in his eyes, just dive in and completely lose myself in them. “I thought you knew?”

I shrug, and the world jerks forward again, back into real time. “I try not to assume that stuff, you know?”

“That’s fair. And probably a good policy.” He shrugs too, and turns his attention back to his omelet, his cheeks flushing a little under his freckles. “But yeah, I came out when I was sixteen.”

“As?” I sound like an idiot, like I don’t understand, but I have to be sure, _I have to know_. Fortunately, Marco’s a good sport, and though he glances at me through his eyelashes, he answers readily enough.

“Bisexual, at the time, although that was mostly because I didn’t want to admit to myself that I was gay yet.”

I can’t help it, I bristle a little at that. “That’s a pretty shitty thing to do, you know.”

His eyes widen, and Marco puts his fork down. “You sound… pretty passionate about the subject.”

“Well, _yeah_! I’m sick of everyone acting like it’s just a matter of time before I start boning guys exclusively! It’s like, they think every bisexual can’t make up their minds and are just waiting to be hetero or homo!”

Marco blinks, and a tiny, flickering smile dances across his face, there and then gone. “So you’re bi, then.”

“Yes.” I lift my chin defiantly, even though it’s pretty damn clear I’m not going to have a fight on my hands here. “I’m the B in LGBTQ, and I am _not_ invisible.”

“And I’m the G, so you’re not going to have any argument here. Peace, Jean; I was a scared kid when I said that, that’s not how I identify anymore, and I realize now how important it is to be honest with yourself.” He shrugs. “It was hard for me to figure out the difference between liking girls and wanting them as my friends and actually wanting to have sex with them. One of those things I like, the other I don’t. I know that now.”

All it really takes is one look from those huge, liquid eyes, and all the fight rushes out of me. I sag, my shoulders collapsing inward, and hunch down over the Tupperware balanced on my knees. “Sorry. I got a little hot under the collar there.”

“It’s fine.” Now that my tantrum is over, Marco is perfectly relaxed again, and he nudges my shoulder with his as he takes another bite of omelet. “We’re on the same side now, though, so no need to get pissed at little sixteen year old Marco, okay?”

I laugh at that; Marco must have been adorable when he was sixteen and just out of the closet, and even though I wouldn’t have known what to do with my obvious attraction to him at the time, I wish we could have known each other then. Maybe he would’ve helped me figure things out a little sooner. “I don’t know, man; sixteen year old Marco sounds like a brat.”

“He kind of was,” Marco admits, and everything is okay between us again. We eat in silence for a few minutes, and I can’t help the warm glow that’s moving out from my chest, threatening to completely envelope me. He’s gay! He likes guys! I’m a guy! That means he could like _me_!

“You’re smiling.”

“Huh?” I look over, and Marco’s finished his omelet and is watching me, looking faintly amused.

“You’re smiling,” he repeats, and grins at me. “You look like you’re thinking about something that makes you happy.”

I could do it. I could confess right now, just lay my cards on the table and be honest with him, tell him that he’s the one who’s been making me happy for the last few weeks, that I’m drawing again because of him, that yoga makes me feel healthier than I have in years, that he makes me feel hopefully and optimistic where I haven’t in a long, long time. But Eren’s words echo in my ears, and I deflect at the last minute.

“I’m thinking about Parvati,” I tell him, and I’m pretty sure the slight shift in his expression, a shift that almost makes him look disappointed, is my imagination. “I’m pretty excited about taking her home.”

“Do you want me to come with you and help you get everything set up?”

“Yes!” Wow, Kirschtein, way to be an overeager creeper. “That would be really helpful, actually. I bought all the stuff, Reiner helped me, but I don’t know how or where to put all of it, so if you wouldn’t mind helping me?”

“Not at all.” Marco puts the lid back on his empty Tupperware and sticks it back in the plastic bag for me. “I want things to go smoothly for both of you, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.” I finish my own breakfast, and we sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, just digesting and finishing our tea, until Marco stands up. He takes a few steps forward until he’s in front of me, and bends forward a little, and I think, in a feverishly desperate wish-fulfillment kind of way, that he’s going to drop his pants and beg me to take him, right here and now. Instead, he just stoops far enough to grab hold of the knees of his baggy pants—and that’s far enough for me to get a damn good look at his tight, glorious ass—before straightening up and pulling his pant legs with him.

“You asked about my tattoo,” he says, and I tear my gaze away from his butt and look down at his exposed calves. He has a pair of wings tattooed there, one on each calf. The wing on the left is blue and the one on the right is white, but other than that, they’re mirror images of each other, each one curving upwards towards the side of his knee, the main part of the wing inked into his calves. I bend closer, which makes him shift his weight, and when he does, it looks a little like the wings are fluttering.

“They’re like Hermes,” I mutter, and that makes him laugh.

“Not really. They’d be on my ankles if they were like Hermes.” He brings his heels together, his calves touching each other in the middle, and now it’s obvious that the two wings are part of a greater design, that they were meant to be seen together. “It’s the emblem for my old unit, from when I was in.”

“In what?”

“The military.” He drops his pant legs and sits back down. “We used to call them the Wings of Freedom.”

“Oh.” I don’t really know what else to say to that, especially when Marco looks kind of sad all of a sudden. “They’re really cool.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you have any other ones?”

That’s the right question, because he perks back up. Experience has taught me that all people with tattoos like talking about their ink, and Marco is no exception. He sits up straight and tugs down the collar of his shirt. “I’ve got one up here, see? You won’t be able to see the whole thing, but you can see part of it.”

Lean in close to his chest? Don’t mind if I do, and I get nice and close as he tugs down his collar. He has a garland of red roses tattooed underneath his collarbones, the flowers big and showy, so dark red they almost look purple. I glance up at him, lifting an eyebrow. “A rose for old boyfriends?”

“No!” He giggles and blushes, and I smile before going back to investigate. “They’re for my family!”

“Ah.” I point at two smaller ones, inked up high near where his collarbone meets his shoulder, colored orange and orange and white. “Are these two for Aisha and Loaf?”

“They are!” He sounds almost childishly excited that I got that, and he’s beaming when I look up at him. “You’re the first person to notice that!”

I sit back, gloating quietly over my achievement. “No one else noticed those roses?”

He lets go of his shirt, and it comes back up to cover his collarbone, much to my dismay. “No, people have noticed them, but no one else figured out they were for my cats.”

“Guess I’m just good, then.”

“Guess you are.” We smile at each other for a moment, then Marco pulls up the bottom of his shirt. God help me, today was _not_ the day to wear skinny jeans, especially as he points to a tattoo near his waistline. “I have this one too.”

I bend down to look, and at first, I’m a little disgusted. It’s a gun, he has a tattoo of a gun etched across his abdomen, the kind of trashy tattoo where it looks like he’s got a handgun stuck in his waistband. I can feel my nose crinkle with distaste, until I look at it more closely and burst into laughter.

“You nerd! You absolute fucking nerd!”

“Hey now, such language,” Marco chides, but he’s grinning.

“Are you serious? You seriously got a Nintendo Zapper tattooed on you?”

“The cord plugs in on my hip,” he tells me, immensely pleased with himself, and I dissolve into helpless giggles.

“Next you’re going to tell me you’re got the Triforce tattooed on you somewhere.”

“No,” he says, dropping his shirt again, “but that’s an excellent idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back! Hello to all you new readers, I hope you enjoy what you see and stick around for awhile.
> 
> I had a question recently about discussing theories and ideas for Namaste. I'd love to talk about this with all of you, and you can do so at my [tumblr](http://missazrael.tumblr.com), if you're so inclined.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waiting for the cat's surgery to be over and the return of Jeanbo!

“Neeeeeeerd,” I tell him, and he grins and shrugs.

“Do you have any ink?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Nah. Could never decide on a design I wanted. I got this,” I brush my hair aside and show him my industrial in my right ear, “and this,” point out the tragus in my left ear, “instead.”

His brow knits down in concern. “Didn’t those take a long time to heal?”

“ _So_ long. Like, a year and a half. Don’t ever get cartilage pierced, it _sucks_.”

“They look really cool now, though.”

“Thank you.” It’s almost pathetic how much his approval means to me, and I can feel myself puffing up with delight. “Your tattoos are pretty sweet too.”

“Thanks.”

“Where’d you get the ink done?”

That sets him off, and Marco launches into a long-winded, detailed, and entirely endearing story about each of his tattoos, telling me all about where they came from, what they mean, and who did the inking. It’s adorable, but it also takes about half an hour, and by the time he’s done, he’s yawning and starting to nod off.

“Long night?” I ask him, and he nods.

“So much yowling last night, Jean. All the cats were wound up and crying and being obnoxious, and I was worried about Parvati’s surgery, and…” He interrupts himself with an enormous, jaw-cracking yawn, and I fight a grin.

“You can grab a nap if you want to.”

He shakes his head. “What if Parvati comes out of surgery and I’m asleep?”

“I’ll be here. I’ll stay awake and wait for her, it’s okay.” His commitment to the kitten just makes me want him more, god help us both.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” I start digging in my pocket, looking for Adelaide’s keys. “I’m serious, Marco, go get some sleep, you look like a zombie right now.”

“Okay.” I’m looking down, my face turned away from him, trying to find my keys so he can go stretch out in Adelaide’s backseat and get some rest, so it takes me by surprise when something heavy and firm settles in on my shoulder. I turn my head, and Marco has shifted in his hard plastic chair, turning himself around so he’s all curled up in it, and he has his head resting on my shoulder. I must make some kind of startled noise, because he looks up at me, his expression painfully uncertain. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah, just… just a minute…” I move my arm, tugging it out from where it’s wedged between us, and drape it over his shoulders. He melts in against my side, and I know I can’t be that comfortable, that I’m too bony and lean to make a good pillow, but he sighs like he’s fallen into the best bed imaginable and closes his eyes.

“Just twenty minutes, okay?”

“Sure.” Lies, I’m going to let him sleep as long as he wants, as long as he’s pressed up against me like this and keeping me warm with the heat of his body.

“Thanks, Jean.” He yawns, once, and then is asleep. Just like that.

All right, then. So I’m in an abandoned vet’s office waiting room, waiting for my new kitten to be finished with her surgery, with the most amazing, wonderful guy sleeping on my shoulder, a guy that I now know is gay, who also knows that I’m bi, who I definitely have a chance with now. A guy with super sexy, nerdy tattoos, who loves his cats and his family, who does yoga and has a great body, who listens to me and shares things with me and likes my cooking. I grin so hard it makes my face hurt. Today is a damn fine day.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, letting me know I have a text message. I could reach it, but Marco’s on my right side and I don’t like typing with my left hand, and besides, I don’t want anything to ruin this moment. Whoever it is can wait.

It’s forty five minutes and three text messages later before Reiner comes back into the waiting room, and Marco is still sound asleep on my shoulder and snoring quietly. He’s made my entire right side go numb, but I don’t care. I’ve been perfectly content, just sitting here and letting him sleep, feeling him breathe and listening to our combined heartbeats in the stillness. It’s almost meditative, the way he calms me down, and I’ve been trying to match our breathing, really paying attention to my breaths the way we’re supposed to in yoga, and I’m feeling mellow and relaxed and perfectly at ease with myself right now.

Reiner’s thin eyebrows shoot up when he sees us, and he gets the most self-satisfied, pleased smirk on his face as he takes in the scene. I try to scowl at him—no one smirks at me like that, no one!—but I fail completely and feel myself grinning back at him.

Reiner crosses the room to us, and I notice that he’s carrying Parvati, cradling her against his broad chest. She’s just a little scrap of black fur in his arms, and I’m astounded by the wave of protectiveness that smashes into me. I know Reiner won’t hurt her, but still, that’s _my_ cat, and I can’t deny the sudden urge to take her from him and tend to her myself.

As soon as he’s close enough, Reiner crouches down and offers Parvati to me, pitching his voice low so he doesn’t wake up Marco. “She’s waking up, so she’s really groggy right now,” he tells me as he lays her across my lap. “Make sure to support her back legs. You don’t want her rolling off right now.”

“Thank you,” I whisper back, and Marco stirs for a moment on my shoulder before falling still again. I scoop my free arm around Parvati, and with Reiner’s help, get her up near my chest. She’s limp and lolling in my arm, and I catch a glimpse of white skin and stitches on her shaved belly. She opens her eye and peers blearily up at me, and then a tiny, scratchy little purr starts rumbling through her chest and into mine.

I look up at Reiner in confusion. “She’s purring.”

He looks immensely pleased by that. “She is? Great!”

“I thought cats only purred when they were happy?”

“Nah.” He shakes his head. “Cats purr for a lot of different reasons. One of them is for healing.”

“Healing?” I give him my mightiest side-eye. “That sounds like bullshit.”

He lifts a hand to his mouth to cover his snickering, especially as Marco moves on my shoulder again and makes a soft snorting noise. “It’s not. They purr at a frequency that supports bone growth and internal healing. She’s trying to make herself well right now.”

I still think that sounds ridiculous, but I drop it for now. He knows a lot more about animals than I do, and who knows, maybe I’ll Google it later and find out he was telling the truth. Instead, I rock Parvati gently back and forth against my chest, and her purring gets louder.

I look back at Reiner triumphantly, delighted with how my kitten is waking up, but he’s not looking at Parvati anymore. Instead, he’s studying Marco and I, and his eyes are soft, his mouth pulled into a sweet, pleased smile. “You guys look really cute right now,” he whispers.

I don’t know why, but a chill runs up my spine, and I tighten my arm around Marco’s shoulders. “He was tired,” I tell Reiner defensively. “The cats kept him up all night.”

Reiner holds up both his hands, showing me his palms, and that weird sense of foreboding dissipates, gone as quickly as it sprung up. “Hey, no judgment. I’d do the same thing if a hottie wanted to sleep on me.”

I can’t help it; I glance at Marco, and although all I can see of him is the top of his head and an expanse of his broad forehead, I still feel my lips draw up in a stupid, sappy smile. He _is_ a hottie, and he’s sleeping on _me_ , and let _me_ sleep on _him_ , and god, if all we ever do in the future is use each other as pillows, I think I’d be happy with that.

I look back at Reiner, and he’s getting up, smiling in a way that’s far too self-satisfied and good natured for how early it is on a Saturday morning. “You take all the time you need. If Little Bit there starts waking up more and squirming, just yell and I’ll come get her.”

“Okay.” I watch him go, chewing on my lower lip and considering, and when he’s at the door, I call out to him. “Hey, Reiner?”

He stops, looking over his shoulder, and he’s still grinning. “Yeah?”

“Thanks.” And then, because that doesn’t seem accurate enough, “For everything.”

“It’s my pleasure, Jean,” he tells me, his voice a low, warm rumble, and then he’s gone.

Marco shifts, his snoring fracturing, and after a moment’s hesitation, I lift the hand that’s around his shoulders and pet at his hair. He’s touched my hair a bunch of times, I tell myself, so he probably won’t mind if I touch his. His hair is just as silky as it looks, smooth and glossy under my fingertips, a completely different texture than my own rough thatch, and he sighs softly as I play with it. How does he do it, getting his hair like this? Suddenly all those hair care products I saw in his bathroom make sense, and I smirk happily to myself. I’ve got you figured out, Mr. Bott, I know what to get you for Christmas now.

Parvati opens her eye and watches me again, then stretches her front legs out. It must hurt, because she only stretches partway before stopping, and looks at me indignantly.

“I’m sorry, Little P,” I tell her, and she opens her mouth in a silent meow. “It’s for your own good, though. You don’t want any babies hanging off you and demanding all your time. Babies kind of suck.”

“Oh, I dunno.” I jump, startled, and turn my head to see that Marco’s awake, his eyes open and looking at me sleepily. “Babies’re kinda nice.”

I wrinkle my nose at him. “Babies are gross and smelly.”

“Jean, noooooo,” he whines, and I think he’s more asleep than awake right now, judging by the way his eyelids keep drooping. “I wanna baby someday.”

Every time I think he can’t get any cuter, he goes and does something like this. “How’re you going to get a baby, Marco?”

He makes a groggy sound and burrows deeper in my shoulder, rubbing his face on my jacket. “Gonna make one.” I start to take my arm back, and he grabs my wrist, faster than anyone this semi-conscious has a right to be, and pulls it tighter around his shoulders. All right then, Mr. Bott, if you insist. “Gonna make a _pretty_ baby.”

“Okay.” I adjust my arm so it’s laying more naturally over his shoulders, and Marco sighs in contentment, his warm breath tickling my neck. “What’ll your pretty baby look like?”

His brow scrunches down a little in sleepy thought, and I wonder what kind of answer I’m going to get. I’m really not expecting much of one at all; god knows my own reasoning capabilities are pretty minimal when I’m half asleep. I’m expecting a description of a cat, or maybe a few slurred adjectives before he drops off back to sleep.

“Freckles,” Marco tells me, surprisingly decisive. “Freckles, ’n dark hair, ’n…” He pauses, his lips pursing with concentration, and I goad him on a little.

“And what? Freckles, dark hair, and…”

That’s all it takes, apparently. “And gold eyes. Like yours.”

Holy shit, he’s full of surprises today. First he tells me he’s gay, and now he’s blathering on about a baby that sounds like a combination of the two of us. It doesn’t mean anything, he’s just sleep-talking. “That doesn’t sound very cute, Marco. It’d be cuter if it had dark eyes.”

“No!” He actually opens one eye and glares up at me, and I’m getting a one-eyed glare from both sides. “ _Very_ cute!”

“Okay, okay, you win, it’d be cute!” Did he really just call my eyes golden? I think of them more as a very light brown, but I guess, if the light strikes them right, you could call them gold. It’s a pretty flattering description.

“Cute,” he repeats, and closes his eye, cuddling closer to me and sighing in contentment. “Cute lil’ baby…”

“Yeah, a cute little baby.” Parvati must like the sounds of this too, because she starts purring louder and paws weakly at my chest until I scratch behind her ear. Everyone, so demanding of my time these days…

As if on cue, my phone starts ringing. I have it set to silent, but Connie the Wonder Intern figured out a way to make one number always come through and ring, no matter what setting the rest of the phone was on, and a shrill blast of _Songs My Mother Taught Me_ echoes through the waiting room. I jump, Parvati jumps and then mewls piteously, and Marco picks his head up off my shoulder, fully awake for the first time. “Whuzzat?”

“Shit!” I snatch my arm back from around his shoulders and get both hands under Parvati, cradling her and offering her to him. He takes her, a little baffled, as the chorus and volume of my phone pick up. “Sorry, I can’t ignore this!”

As Marco tries to wake up and soothes a fretful Parvati, I leap to my feet and stalk across the waiting room, digging my phone out of my pocket. I take a deep breath before answering, and hold the phone an inch or so away from my ear. “Hello?”

“ _JEAN FARLAN KIRSCHTEIN, WARUM GEHST DU NICHT ANS TELEFON?!_ ”

Shit, shit, _shit_ , she’s yelling in German. There’s nothing more terrifying than being yelled at in German. “ _Hallo, Mama_ ,” I answer, trying to be integrating as I run a hand through my hair and make the mental switch to German. “ _Ich bin beim Tierarzt, ich muss ruhig sein._ ”

“ _Tierklinik_?” She sounds suspicious, but not angry anymore, thank god. “ _Warum_?”

I sigh in relief and switch back to English. “I adopted a kitten.”

“ _WAS_?!”

_Scheiße_. “Yeah, I told you about that, remember? A friend of mine was fostering her, and she’s old enough to come home with me now, so I’m at the clinic waiting for her surgery to be over.” I glance over, and Marco and Parvati are watching all of this with rapt interest. I roll my eyes and mouth _my mom_ at him, and he nods his head knowingly.

“The yoga teacher?” She’s switched back to English too, and I hurriedly bring the phone close to my ear, so Marco doesn’t overhear. “The handsome one?”

“Yeah, that’s him.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Marco smile a little. “We’re at the clinic now.”

She takes that in, and switches tactics. “Why haven’t you been returning my texts? I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”

“I told you, I’m at the clinic! Bad reception.” Like I’m going to tell her that I had the handsome yoga teacher sleeping on my shoulder and couldn’t be bothered.

She tuts a little. “I’m at your flat right now. Jeanbo, you don’t have any food, and your kitchen is a mess.”

I groan. “I haven’t been shopping lately, it’s fine! I was going to do that today!” I’m going to pretend I didn’t notice the whole letting-herself-into-my-apartment thing. For now.

“Too late, I’ve already been.” Now that she’s not yelling anymore, I can hear the sounds of cutlery and water running. “I am making you lunch.”

Damn it. I hate it when she does this, but only a little, because I get free food out of the deal. I might be out of college, but I’m not _that_ far out of college. Normally, it’d be okay, or at least acceptable with minimal bitching, but I need to get things set up for the cat, and I need Marco to do that.

“Can you hold on a minute, Mom?” I put my hand over the microphone and take the phone away from my ear, ignoring her chatter, and look at Marco. He’s watching me, fully awake now and looking very amused. I roll my eyes at him. “My mom’s at my apartment, making lunch. Do you still want to help me set up cat stuff?” If he says no, that’ll be okay; I can Google or call Reiner if I start having trouble. I mean, how hard can it be?

He just smiles. “The mom who taught you how to make omelets? Count me in, if it’s okay with her.”

I grin and nod before turning back to my phone. “Mom?”

“Yes, Jeanbo?”

Wince. We’re going to have to have another talk about that nickname. “Can you make lunch for Marco, too?”

“The handsome yoga teacher?”

“Yeah.”

“He is coming?”

“Yeah. He’s going to help set up cat stuff.”

“I get to meet this mysterious man?” She sounds so thrilled. In all fairness, out of all the people I’ve dated, she’s only ever met Hitch.

“Yes.”

“Okay yes, bring him please. I’ll make extra food, tell him to come hungry.”

I choose to ignore how she just gave me permission to return to my own damn apartment. “Okay. We have to wait until the doctor says the cat is okay, though.”

“Text me when you leave, so I know.”

“I will. Bye, Mom.”

“Bye, Jeanbo.”

That name _again_! I sigh as I disconnect the call and turn to Marco, and he smiles at me expectantly. Parvati has turned herself around in his hands and is sitting up now, watching me with her one eye, her white belly a glaring contrast to her black fur. “She says you should come hungry.”

He laughs. “I’m going to end up stuffed before the day is over, aren’t I?”

_You have no idea how much I’d like to stuff you_. “Probably, yeah. And she’ll send you home with leftovers.”

~*~

It’s another hour and a half before Reiner and Dr. Zacharius deem Parvati well enough to travel, and as we wave goodbye from the parking lot, Marco’s stomach growls loudly.

He chuckles self-consciously, and Parvati side-eyes him from his lap before batting at his abdomen. We decided to not put her back in her carrier, after she cried and yowled at the sight of it. Reiner was worried about her popping her stitches if she kept making a fuss, so she gets to ride back in Marco’s lap. “I guess that took longer than I thought.”

“Don’t worry about it, you’ll make my mom’s day if you eat all her food.” I’d been inundated by text messages while we were waiting, and I made sure to answer them so she wouldn’t get upset again. 

“If she cooks anything like you do, that won’t be a problem.”

I can’t help it, that makes warmth bloom in my chest. He likes my cooking! I never thought being able to make a killer omelet would be so meaningful to me.

The rest of the ride is quiet, with Marco occasionally cooing to Parvati to keep her still and quiet. She’s much better riding on his lap than in the carrier, and the only time she fusses is when she decides she wants to look out the window. Once Marco figures that out and holds her up, she watches the city pass by with rapt interest.

She’s not the only one; Marco looks around as we’re driving, and his eyes keep getting wider and wider. “You live _here_?” he finally asks, his voice filled with awe.

“Yeah.” I rub at the back of my neck. I’m not used to feeling embarrassed about where I live, but something about the way he’s looking at me makes me ashamed. “My dad sent up a fund when I was little, and when I graduated university, I bought a place here.”

“Your dad must have invested really well.” He doesn’t sound judgmental, just impressed.

“He did. Well, a combo of luck and good investment, really. My uncle helped him a lot.”

“Your dad was the younger brother?”

“Yeah. He founded the company I work at with my uncle and aunt.”

Marco nods, but drops the subject there, mostly because I’m pulling into the garage under my building. He checks out all the cars we drive past, and I have the feeling they’re mostly worth more than he makes in six months. I pull Adelaide into her parking spot—labeled neatly with **J. Kirschtein** —and turn her off. “Do you want to carry the cat, and I’ll get your bag?”

“That sounds good.” He tucks Parvati carefully in against his chest, and I hoist both our bags and lead him to the elevator. As we’re riding up, I has a sudden attack of nerves. He’s meeting _my mom_. Don’t people usually date for months before that happens? We’re not even dating, and my mom is making him lunch. What if this friend-zones me?

Cool it, Kirschtein, settle the hell down. If Marco friend-zones you, you’re going to be fucking delighted that such a cool guy wants to be your friend and be the best damn friend you can be to him.

“Uh…”

He looks up from Parvati, who is entirely unsure about this elevator business. “Yes?”

“You don’t mind getting hugged, do you? Because my mom is a hugger.”

He laughs, loud and rich, the sound echoing in the enclosed space, and Parvati jumps in his arms. “Jean, my family is Italian. I have _no problem_ with being hugged.”

“Okay, cool. Just wanted to warn you.” He served overseas, after all, so I wasn’t sure if a hug would upset him or not. Going by how touchy-feely he is, I didn’t think so, but I wanted to be sure.

When the elevator opens on my floor, we’re assaulted by the scent of my mom’s cooking,  
billowing out from my apartment and filling the hallway. Marco closes his eyes and inhales, a dreamy look coming across his face, and even Parvati looks up in interest. “I haven’t smelled anything that good in a long time.”

I smirk as I unlock the door. “Save the compliments for her, man, she’ll love it.”

The door swings open, and I’m almost immediately enveloped in a warm, suffocating mom hug. “Jeanbo!” she trills— _right in front of Marco, thanks a lot, Mom_ —and drags my head down onto her shoulder. She’s a larger woman, made from hearty Bavarian stock, but I’m taller than she is and I’m pretty sure it drives her nuts that she can’t just pick me up and tote me around anymore. “Where is your cat? Where is your man?”

“They’re right behind me, Mom,” I grouch, ignoring how much it thrills me when she calls Marco my man. Putting the cart before the horse there, Kirschtein, slow your role. I pull myself out of her octopus-like embrace and half turn so I can see them all at the same time. “Marco, this is my mom, Olympia Kirschtein. Mom, this is Marco Bott. And he’s holding Parvati the cat.”

“Hello, Mr. Bott,” she says, pushing past me and shoving me into the wall so she can get to him and shake his hand. “Jean has told me so much about you! Every time we talk, it’s Marco this and Marco that. You are a yoga teacher, yes? And you also take care of homeless cats?”

“ _Mom_!” Oh my god, it’s like high school all over again, only worse because Marco isn’t going to be forced to be in the same building with me every day after this is over. 

“What, Jean, I am talking to your friend. What a beautiful kitten! May I hold her?”

“Of course,” Marco says, looking bemused by this whole thing as he carefully extricates his hand from my mom’s grip. “Be careful, though, she has fresh stitches on her belly.”

“Hello, little darling!” She takes Parvati from him and cuddles her up against her chest, and while Parvati looks a little startled at this new development, she accepts being held by someone new with good grace. As I watch, she stretches her little head up and sniffs my mom’s chin, then looks over at me, her expression quizzical. I take a few steps closer and stroke her head.

“It’s okay, Little P, this is my mom.”

“She is very lovely,” my mom tells me, then she turns her attention back to Marco. I’m old and familiar, Marco is new and exciting. “Come in, Mr. Bott, I hope you are hungry.” She turns and walks away, towards the kitchen, assuming we’ll both follow.

Marco and I exchange a glance, and then dissolve into helpless, muffled giggles, the kind you can’t control and just have to laugh out.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper between laughing fits. “She’s… she’s a lot to take.”

“It’s fine,” he tells me, wheezing a little, his eyes starting to water with tears. “She’s great. Reminds me of my mom.”

“Where are you boys?” 

We both jump as her voice floats in from the kitchen and look at each other guiltily, like we’ve been caught doing something we weren’t supposed to, before we start giggling again. “Just a minute!” I yell, then toe my shoes off and start into the apartment, looking over my shoulder at Marco. “You want the grand tour?”

He kicks his own shoes off and follows me in. “I’d love it.”

“Cool, because the apartment is open lay-out and, well…” We come around the corner of the little entryway, and the entire apartment sprawls out in front of us. I make an expansive gesture with one arm. “Here it is.”

“Oh my god…” He sounds a little breathless, and I wonder if I’m being douchey by showing off the apartment this way. It’s easily two or three times the size of his, and he definitely doesn’t have a panoramic view of the city in his place. Somehow, though, I feel like I’m overcompensating, because while my place is bigger and better decorated, his feels a lot more like a home. 

Marco moves past me, out into the living area. He walks around the couches, ignoring the window that takes up an entire wall, and makes a beeline towards something I almost forgot was there. “Jean, you have a piano!”

“He took lessons for ten years,” my mom says from the kitchen, where she’s got Parvati installed on a hot pad on the counter and distracted with a piece of chicken. “He does not play very much any more, though.”

“You don’t know that!” It’s true, I don’t play, and the baby grand that I’ve pushed off to one side has been gathering dust for months. It’s probably woefully out of tune, and I don’t even remember what sheet music I’ve got stashed in the bench.

Marco doesn’t seem to care; he stands next to it and runs a hand along the closed lid, and the way he touches my piano is almost enough to get me jealous. He looks over his shoulder at me, and his eyes are as wide as a child’s, his face lit up with excitement. “Can I play it?”

“Sure.” I’m embarrassed by the state of the piano, how dusty and clearly unused it is, and I move to the kitchen to find a dust cloth while Marco sits down and lifts the lid off the keys.

“I did not know he plays,” my mom says as I come into the kitchen with her, her voice pitched low so Marco can’t hear.

“Neither did I.” I stick my head under the kitchen sink and dig around for an old t-shirt.

“He’s very handsome. And your cat is cute.”

I could be offended by that, or get embarrassed, or otherwise act like a dick. But instead, as I stand up, a ratty old undershirt in one hand, all I can do is smile a little and look out across the apartment, to where Marco is cracking his knuckles and running his fingers over the keys. “I know.”

I hear my mom chuckle behind me, and then she prods me in the back with a wooden spoon. “Go on, Jeanbo. Go and sit with him. Lunch will be ready in ten minutes.”

Marco looks up at me and grins widely as I approach the piano, and I can’t help but smile back. “Sorry it’s so dusty,” I tell him, and get to work on the top with my rag. All I’m really doing is smearing the dust into streaks, and I silently vow to actually clean the damn thing once in awhile.

“It’s okay, I know you’re busy,” he answers serenely, and plays a rippling little bass scale. He has better form than I ever did, his hand light and flowing on the keyboard, but I wince anyway. I was right, the piano is horribly out of tune. Marco’s smile falters a little, but then he shrugs as he looks back at me. “Easy enough fix, right?”

“Yeah. I’ll call my guy on Monday.” Not that I actually _have_ a piano-tuning guy, but I’m sure my mom does and will give me a number. If not, there’s always Google. I give up on getting rid of the dust and lean my elbow on the piano, raising an eyebrow at me. “Are you going to play me something?”

He chuckles and looks down. “Hold on, I’m thinking.” He flexes his hands a few times, positions them on the keyboard, and the slow, elegant first notes of Moonlight Sonata fill the apartment. 

I’m surprised, honestly; it wasn’t what I was expecting at all, and I find myself mesmerized, watching him play. He bows his head low over the keyboard in concentration, his shoulders moving forward, and I suddenly wonder what he’d look like playing in candlelight, and what I’d have to do to get him to pose that way so I could draw him.

Marco plays a few more bars before missing some notes in the treble clef, and he winces and stops, picking his right hand up off the keyboard and shaking it.

“Beethoven!” my mom calls approvingly from the kitchen. “Excellent choice!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Kirschtein!” Marco calls back, and while his voice is light and cheerful enough, his brows are drawn down low and he’s glaring at his right hand. It’s fascinating, in a way; I don’t think I’ve ever seen him angry before, and it’s a little like watching a storm spring up in an otherwise sunny day. I stand there, awkward, as he flexes his hand open and closed without putting it back on the keyboard.

“You okay?” I finally ask.

He glances up, and there’s a sadness in his eyes that I’ve never seen there before, something deep and aching, and I want nothing more than to wrap my arms around him and make it go away. “Nerve damage,” he answers shortly, shaking his hand out again. “It doesn’t always do what I want it to do.”

I don’t have anything to say to that; as much as I want to ask what happened and how he got it, that seems completely inappropriate right now, a question so unnecessary that even I can see it would be a bad idea. I hover, useless, for a few moments, then make up my mind and come around towards the bench. “Scoot over.”

Marco’s eyebrows shoot up at that, but he obeys, and I settle myself down onto the bench next to him, ignoring how close that puts us and how it makes my heart pick up its pace. I settle my left hand into my lap—mostly to keep myself from wanting to touch his thigh—and put my right one on the keyboard. “Okay, let’s play something.”

He blinks at me owlishly, then grins and tucks his own right hand away, resting it across his broad thigh. So close, in such perfect hand-holding range, and yet so far. “What do you want to play?”

I shrug. “I don’t know, man, give me a bass line and I’ll come up with something.”

Marco looks down at the keyboard and considers, and out of the corner of my eye, I see the most impish little smirk spread across his face. He gets his left hand into position… and busts out with a rollicking, syncopated, completely ridiculous boogie-woogie bass line.

My jaw drops and I _gape_ at him. Of all the things he could have done, I expected that one the least. I was expecting Moonlight Sonata again, or maybe Fur Elise, possibly something jazzy on the outside. But no, he had to bust out _that_ , the thing I least expected, and Marco laughs out loud when he sees the look on my face.

“C’mon, Jean,” he cajoles, his left hand flying up and down the keyboard. “I gave you a bass line!”

You little shit. I grin back at him, shift my right hand, and… try to keep up. Spoiler alert, I’m terrible at keeping up. I never played a lot of jazz or swing or anything this lively, and Marco is leaving me in the dirt with his bass. Bless him, though, he realizes I’m having trouble, and slows things down a little… then a lot, until I can, through an effort of will that seems almost supernatural, keep up with him.

“How long have you played?” I yell over the racket we’re making.

“Since I was six!” he yells back, and his cheeks are flushed with laughter and good humor, his eyes sparkling, and it would be so easy to lean in and kiss him right now, or at least reach between us and take his hand. 

Instead, I make my own shift, and start playing In the Mood with my right hand. For a moment, the chords we’re making clash horribly, until Marco realizes what I’ve done and starts playing with me, falling easily into the old swing standard. From the kitchen, my mom starts singing along, nonsense syllables that rise and fall with our playing, and I hope she’s keeping an eye on Parvati and that we’re not scaring the kitten into bolting off the counter.

We pound our way through the crescendo at the end, and as the last notes of Glenn Miller’s greatest piece fade in the air, Marco and I turn to each other. It’s A Moment, as we sit there, both panting a little and high with exhilaration, glowing and beaming at each other, full of delight and excitement and more alive than we were before we started playing. His cheeks are rosy with color, his freckles standing out like splatters of ink, and whatever darkness had been in his eyes before has fled, replaced by a pure, simple joy. He looks _alive_ , like his entire body is strumming with energy, like he’s vibrating with life itself, and all I want, more than anything I’ve ever wanted before, is to be close to him when he’s like this. No, that’s not true… I want to be the one who makes him feel like this.

“Thank you, Jean,” he says breathily, licking his lips, and he shifts towards me, resting his shoulder against mine. “I needed that. Thanks.”

“Welcome.” I lean against him, our weight supporting each other, and I swear he starts to move in, starts to get closer, and I part my lips a little in anticipation, let my eyes go soft…

“Beautiful playing, boys! Lunch is ready!”

God. Fucking. Damn it.

Marco jerks back, like he suddenly realized what we almost did, what we were moving towards, and pushes the bench back away from the piano. I nearly lose my balance at the sudden movement and end up grabbing the keyboard and making it jangle loudly. My mother tsks in the kitchen, Parvati meows, and Marco offers me his hand, looking embarrassed and rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Lunch time?” he asks, and I sigh, reaching up and taking his hand. He pulls me to my feet, and we end up chest to chest, almost touching, and it takes him a beat or two to step away, a beat long enough for me to feel his heart throb against my own.

“Yeah,” I agree, ignoring the way my heart aches, the way it cries out to have him close again. “Lunch time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~If there's anyone out there who speaks German with more fluency than a drunk four year old (see: my fluency level) and notices anything that needs correcting, please let me know. I wrote it myself and then Google Translated and god only knows if it's right or not.~~
> 
> Special thanks to gurkensalatkoenigin for their help getting the German squared away! You're a rockstar!
> 
> I have [a Tumblr](http://missazrael.tumblr.com).


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lunch with mom.

My mom has gone all out with lunch, setting an enormous, fragrant spread across my coffee table and tutting about how I don’t have a proper dining room. I have a moment of panic when I remember that when I left this morning, that table was covered with sketches and drawings, many of them prominently featuring Marco, but then I see that she’s moved them all over by the TV and I relax. The paper on top has a drawing of a cat on it—Loaf, I’m guessing, just catching a quick glimpse of the general shape and proportions—and that’s not suspicious or creepy at all.

“Marco, where should we put the cat?” Now that she has all the food laid out, my mom carries a very sleepy and content looking Parvati into the living room area. I have a feeling my cat just got a healthy dose of human food, and I make a note not to give her any treats tonight.

“Uh, somewhere she can sleep, probably.” He looks to me. “Do you have somewhere quiet and dark for her?”

“My room? That’s the only part of the apartment separated from the rest.” I reach for Parvati, and my mom plants a quick kiss between her ears before handing her over. It seems they’ve both adjusted quite well to the grandparent-grandcat relationship; Parvati is lazily purring putty in my hands.

“Okay, that sounds good.” Marco stands up from the couch, and starts to follow me. I don’t question it, and lead him into my bedroom. I wish his first trip to my bedroom could have been for something a little more exciting than making a nest for a cat, but oh well. I’ll take what I can get.

Marco gives the room a quick once-over and then starts dragging the hamper over by the bed. “So she doesn’t have to jump if she wants to get down,” he explains when I raise an eyebrow at him. “She shouldn’t be jumping a whole lot until she gets her stitches out.”

I nod. “Makes sense.” While he’s moving furniture around, I put Parvati on the bed. She looks surprised at first and picks her paws up really high, like she didn’t expect the surface to be so squashy. After patting at the comforter with both paws, she makes a beeline for my pillow, and curls up into a little ball on it.

Marco laughs. “If you don’t want her doing that all the time, you should move her now.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” It’s goddamn adorable is what it is, and I can feel myself smiling mushily as I watch Parvati get comfortable. “I can share my pillow with a kitten.”

“You say that now.” Marco reaches down and strokes Parvati between her ears. “You might feel differently when you have a full grown cat trying to sleep on your face.”

I wonder what would happen if I just pushed him down on the bed right now. He’s already leaning over it, it wouldn’t be a very far drop. If I pushed him from the side, he wouldn’t land on Parvati, and then I could come down with him. I could get on top of him and cover his face with kisses, find all the places that make him moan and squeak when they’re touched, strip him down and see all of his tattoos with nothing blocking them, no pesky clothes to get in the way. I could learn his taste, learn the texture of his skin under my lips, learn every curve and angle of his body, I could…

“Jean? Earth to Jean, you still there?”

I blink; Marco is waving a hand in front of my eyes and looking at me with his head tilted to the side, concern writ all over his face. “Huh?”

“You okay? You spaced out for a second there.”

I shake my head. He looks so deeply and genuinely concerned, and I manage a cheeky grin in response. “I’m fine. Just got lost in my thoughts for a minute.”

Marco accepts that and drops his hand back down to his side. “This is a nice room,” he blurts out, and almost immediately drops his eyes, his cheeks turning pink. “Your comforter is really… soft.”

“Thanks?” I’m not quite sure how to respond to that. Would you like to sit down on my comforter? Do you want to take a nap in my bed with Parvati? Can I join you both, while you’re taking a nap? Want to cuddle in the comforter with me? Want to see all the things we can do under the comforter?

He looks back up and chuckles awkwardly, rubbing one finger under his nose. “Come on, we should go eat, or your mom is going to think we’re up to something in here.”

If she thought that, she’d probably just pack up the food and leave. I don’t tell him that, though, and instead nod and lead the way out of the room, trying to subtly readjust my pants as we go.

~*~

My mom really went all out for lunch, making sauerkraut, sausages, potatoes, and even some freshly baked bread. It’s simple food, but goddamn delicious, and there isn’t a lot of talking for the first few minutes as we all dig in. Marco in particular goes after the sausages, and I think about teasing him over his “sometimes vegetarian” status, but my mouth is too full to speak.

My mom slows down first, most likely because she’d been picking at the food and tasting it as she made it, and she starts asking Marco questions. I sit and listen as she runs him through his paces, finding out all the things I already know. I break in occasionally, when it’s something I know about, like the yoga classes he teaches or his two cats. She laughs when Marco tells her about Aisha falling asleep on me, then looks at me with narrowed eyes.

“You have spent the night in Marco’s apartment?”

I pause with my fork halfway to my mouth. “Yes?”

She looks like she’s about to start lecturing me, and I can feel my hackles raising and something really childish about to start, but then Marco smoothly interrupts. “He slept on the couch, Mrs. Kirschtein. I assure you, your son’s honor is fully intact.”

Unfortunately.

“Oh no, Marco dear,” she tells him, waving a hand dismissively, “I am not worried about Jean’s honor. I know he lost that long ago.”

“ _Mom_!” I explode, but then they’re both laughing, and the sound of Marco’s laughter is like a balm on my butthurt nerves. I sniff and concentrate on my sauerkraut, stewing in silence as my mom tells Marco all about my nudist phase. The one I had when I was two.

“You could not make him keep clothing on! I would try and try to dress him, but as soon as my back was turned, he was naked again! We were lucky it was summer, or he would have frozen into a little icicle.”

“Mom,” I complain, going in for one of the last sausages, “not everyone wants to hear that story.”

“Marco does,” she says defensively. “Look how he laughs!”

And it’s true, Marco is bent over his knees, holding his abdomen, laughing helplessly. I watch him a moment, and I don’t have it in me to stay pissy. I sigh, and shove a sausage in my face instead. “Why don’t you tell him one of the nice stories about me?”

“Your little nudist story is nice,” she insists, and that just makes Marco laugh harder. If the sound of his laughter wasn’t so musical, I’d be a lot angrier about all this.

“Okay, okay,” he gasps, holding up a hand and trying to get control over himself. “Mrs. Kirschtein, I have a question for you.”

“Of course, dear.”

“So, you both have a German last name…”

“It means cherry stone,” she interjects helpfully.

“… and you both speak German, so why is Jean’s first name French?” He shoots me an apologetic glance, and I shrug. It’s a question I’ve gotten before, and my mom likes telling the story. “Why not Johan?”

“People could probably pronounce Johan better the first time they see it,” I mutter, and my mom shoots me a dirty look. Whatever, Mom, you haven’t had a lifetime of people pronouncing your name like _Gene_ the first time they see it.

“When I was a young woman, I was a singer,” she tells him. “I was never famous, but I performed in some minor theaters. My favorite role was Fantine, from _Les Miserables_.” She looks distant and far-off, happy in her memories. “And my favorite role for men…”

“… was Jean Valjean,” Marco finishes for her, and she nods and takes his hand. He lets her, and squeezes her hand back, and I’m suddenly jealous that I’m sitting across from him and can’t take his other hand. Marco laughs a little, his eyes suddenly twinkling. “Next you’re going to tell me that Jean’s father played Jean Valjean!”

“Good heavens, no!” She sounds offended by the very thought. “Jean’s father, rest his soul, could not sing a single note. No, he won me with his drawings and his art.” She turns to me then, and I feel like I’m suddenly under a microscope, pinned down for inspection. “Jeanbo inherited his talent, you know.”

Marco looks at me, and I want to wilt away from his gaze. I settle for squirming nervously in my chair. “I know Jean is a graphic designer, but I thought that was more about pixels and color changes and fonts?”

“It is,” I try to break in desperately, but my mom just talks over me.

“Oh yes, he’s very good at that too, but he draws the most lovely things! I have the little drawings he made me in elementary school at home, I could show you sometime.”

“I would like to see that,” Marco tells her, and he actually sounds sincere. He’s still looking at me, and when I hazard a glance up at him, he’s smiling so sweetly, so genuinely, that it makes my heart jog in my chest. He really _would_ look at all the dumb drawings I brought home for my mom when I was five, and probably be impressed and sweet about them. This guy… this fucking guy…

“Jean.” My mom shifts so she’s facing me. “Why don’t you go and get some of those drawings that were on the table and show Marco? I think he would like to see them.”

All the warmth and goodwill that had been building in my chest abandons me, all at once, and it replaced by an icy winter storm. “I don’t think he’d want to see those, _Mom_ ,” I hiss, trying to communicate with her telepathically, or at least with my eyes. _He doesn’t want to see them because most of them are of HIM, don’t make me show them…_

“No, I’d like to see them,” Marco chirps, and my mom nods emphatically, gesturing towards the pile of papers.

My telepathy needs work.

I get up and walk over to the pile of papers, purposefully dawdling to kill time until I come up with a way to stall them. Nothing comes to mind until I bend over and pick them up, only to see the logo I’d been working on for Eren on the top of the stack.

“I can’t show you some of these because they’re for work,” I tell them, and start moving the ones that feature Marco to a separate pile. “You know, confidentiality agreements and stuff.”

“Oh, Levi is letting you work on logos now?” my mom asks, and I cringe inside, because she sounds so proud.

“Sometimes, yeah.” Levi hasn’t let me anywhere near the logos department, but it would take a call to him to verify that information, and he and my mom don’t talk a whole lot. I’m willing to take that risk. I can show them the one I did for Eren and Hange, though, and all the drawings of the cats and our other friends. I pad back over and hand them the approved sketches, feeling that inevitable sense of doom that always comes when someone to going to look at my art.

Marco takes the offered pages carefully, like he’s being given a holy relic, but my mom is much more nonchalant, taking half the pages and starting to rifle through them. “Marco, look, I think this one is Parvati!”

“Speaking of which, I’m going to go and check on her.” I make my escape before either of them can start asking me about my drawings, and duck into the cool darkness of the bedroom. 

Parvati is awake and perks up when I come in, sitting up and staring at me, her mouth opening in a silent meow. “Hey, Little P.” I flop down across the bed, and she carefully picks her way over to me and butts her forehead into mine. I run my hand down her back, and she arches her shoulders into it and starts up her raspy purring.

“They’re looking at my drawings out there,” I tell her, and she butts her head into mine again. “Yeah, I know it’s not a big deal to _you_ , but… I haven’t drawn a whole lot lately. Like, in _years_. And Marco’s looking at them and I…” I pause, not sure I can even articulate this to a cat, and I stop petting her as I think. Parvati doesn’t like that, and paws at my wrist to make me start again. “I just… I like him _so much_.” I bury my face in the bed, and Parvati mews worriedly until I start petting her again. “And there’s a bunch of drawings out there that are of _him_ , and I don’t know what he’d think if he saw them, and _he’s_ the one who made me want to start drawing again, and…”

“Jean?”

I sit bolt upright, nearly knocking Parvati off the bed. Marco’s standing in the doorway, a sheet of paper in one hand, and I resist the urge to run over to him and snatch it out of his hand. Oh god, how much of that whiny, self-involved bitching did he hear?

“Are you okay?” he asks, and he looks so concerned, so loving and worried, and this guy is going to be the death of me, I swear.

“Fine.” I try to grin at him, but it’s probably more of a death’s-head rictus. “Just talking to Parvati.”

That makes him smile, and he comes further into the room. “I talk to my cats all the time too.” Parvati starts toddling across the bed towards him, and he moves forward in a blur, putting his hands down so she doesn’t fall off the bed. The sheet of paper falls out of his hand, and I catch it, bringing it to my face so I can see which one he’d chosen as I swing my legs out to dangle over the side of the bed.

It is, not surprisingly, a drawing of Loaf and Aisha, curled around each other on a cushion. Aisha has her head up and is yawning, and Loaf has one paw tucked under his chin. I hand it back to him. “I had to use a reference on the Internet to get Aisha’s mouth right.”

“You did a great job.” Having been loved up enough, Parvati sits down next to my hip and folds herself into a little cat meatloaf, tucking her tail around her side and folding her front feet under her chest. “I was wondering if, ah…”

“You can keep it, if you want it.” I’m worried that I’m being presumptuous, assuming Marco wants my drawing, but then he lights up and I know I’m not wrong.

“That would be amazing, Jean, thank you! They’re super cute in this drawing and it would look really nice on my wall!” He looks down at the paper, beaming, and I suddenly realize how close he’s standing, how I could easily reach out and touch him, and it’s so hard not to. It’s so hard not to pull him backwards onto the bed with me.

Marco looks up from the drawing and catches my eyes, and he must see something there, something I’ve been trying to hide, because his smile slowly fades, replaced by something a lot more uncertain, something that’s almost guarded, almost shy. “Your drawings… they’re all really good.”

I lick my lips. “Thanks.”

He nods a little, his bangs falling across his forehead. “I liked the ones you did of the yoga class too. You, uh… you’ve really been paying attention in class.”

I shrug one shoulder. “Internet references.” Internet references which involves pictures yanked off his Facebook, but that’s going to be my little secret.

“Don’t sell yourself short like that, they were really good!” He frowns, a cloud in the middle of a sunny sky, and reaches out, taking my hand from where it was lying limp in my lap. “They have so much personality, so much sweetness, and you should be proud of them!”

I don’t even know what to say to that. No one has been this positive about my art since my mom, and I’m not used to positive feedback. I end up just staring up at him, with an expression that probably looks like disbelief, and he smiles a little, his eyes softening and the lines through his forehead smoothing out.

“They’re great, Jean, they really are.” He squeezes my hand, and takes a step closer, close enough that our knees are touching now. “ _You’re_ great.”

Did he… oh god, he called me great. This poor, deluded fool, he thinks I’m great, and I can’t even form any words to tell him how wrong he is, how next to him I’m nothing, how he’s so much better than I could ever hope to be. My mouth falls open a little as I boggle up at him, and Marco just smiles, just looks at me so sweetly, and lifts his free hand to catch my chin. He tilts my head back a little, and my heart is hammering in my chest so hard I’m amazed that the room doesn’t sound like a percussion section. Marco starts to lean in, his eyes going soft and half-lidded, and my eyelids start to flutter as I clench my hand in my sheets.

He’s only a few inches away from my face—away from contact between us—when his phone chimes softly in his pocket.

Marco freezes, I freeze, everything in the room freezes and turns into goddamn Matrix bullet time. I watch as he blinks, as the sound registers, and I see the way his shoulders slump. He sighs, the sound defeated and resigned, but doesn’t let go of my chin. “I’m sorry, Jean,” he says, his voice weary, “but I’ve got to go.”

I want to yell at him. I want to demand an answer, I want to know why he keeps teasing me like this, why we can never get any further than just holding hands, why he keeps holding back. But all I can do is nod, and Marco looks a little relieved to see that.

“Thanks for understanding.” And then he does lean in and kisses me, high on the cheekbone, under my eye, and his lips are soft and warm against my skin.

His phone chimes again, shrill and strident this time, and Marco makes an aggravated sound, almost a growl, in his throat as he lets go of me and turns around. I watch, unable to move, as he digs his phone out of his pocket and brings it to his ear. “ _What_?… yeah, I got it… because I’m busy! … cat stuff, I _told you_ … no! Nothing like that!” His shoulders go tight behind him, drawing up towards his ears, and I start to reach out, to stroke my hand down his spine and soothe whatever’s upsetting him away. 

“I know… I know.” His shoulders stay high, but Marco doesn’t sound as upset. He sounds tired, exhausted even, and lifts his free hand to scrub over his eyes. “Yeah… yes… okay. I’m coming. Yes, right now.” Another pause, and then he hangs up.

A beat of silence. “Marco?” I ask, my voice hesitant and unsure. “Is everything okay?”

He turns and looks at me over his shoulder, and his eyes are glittering, his color high, and his voice is falsely cheerful when he answers. “Everything’s fine. I just… forgot about an appointment. I’ve got to go.”

That didn’t sound like any damn appointment checking service I’ve ever heard, and I stand up. “Seriously, is everything okay? You don’t… you don’t look good.”

“I’m fine!” He laughs, bright and loud, brittle, just to prove how fine he is. “I just need to be somewhere else right now, that’s all!”

“Do you need a ride?”

“No!” He snaps his answer, and I take a step backwards, hitting the back of my legs against the mattress. “No,” he repeats, softer this time, apologetic. “No, I can take the subway. It’s fine. Everything’s cool.”

Everything is _not_ cool, this is the opposite of cool, and I consider, for a brief moment, fighting him on this, trying to make him sit down and talk it out with me, trying to find out what upset him so badly. But I’m not good with words, I’m only good with my hands and even then only partially, so I let my head hang down in defeat. “Yeah, okay.”

“I’m sorry, Jean.” He sounds so genuine, like he really is sorry. “I wouldn’t go if this wasn’t important.”

I look up then, and maybe I’d be brave enough to ask him what’s wrong, but it’s too late. He’s already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meeeeeeh... I'm not super happy with this chapter. It's serving as a bridge to the next one, which I'm pretty excited about, but meeeeeh all the way.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean calls in the cavalry.

“I can’t sleep, Parvati.”

Parvati opens her eye in a tiny slit, glaring at me, letting me know that just because _I_ can’t sleep, that’s no reason to keep _her_ awake. It’s her own fault, though—I put her in her bed about four times, and every time she got out and followed me into the bedroom, until I finally gave up and let her stay—so I’m completely unsympathetic.

“I just don’t get it,” I go on, lacing my hands behind my head and staring up at the ceiling. “It’s like, every time I think things are going to go further, when we’re _this close_ to kissing, he goes and pulls away! What the hell is up with that? I mean, you lived with the guy! You should know!”

Parvati meows crankily and tucks her head under her paw. I know a dismissal when I see one, but that’s not going to stop me tonight, not when I’ve been staring at the ceiling for three hours already and going over every single interaction Marco and I have had in my mind.

“I mean, I know he’s gay. He told me he’s gay. And then he slept on me! The man fell asleep on my shoulder, _on purpose_ , he was cuddling, dammit, and things were going great. He came home, he met my mom, we had a good time… and then he got that phone call. Someone calls him on the phone, and he takes off, but not before he kisses me again! On the cheek, yeah, but it was still a kiss! What the fuck is going on, Little P, because I’d really like to know.”

Parvati gets up and, with extreme feline dignity, tumbles off my chest and heads towards the little staircase Marco built. I watch as she climbs down it and leaves the bedroom, then groan and stare back up at the ceiling. Scorned by my own cat.

By the time I’d gotten my senses together and left the bedroom earlier today, Marco was already gone, and my mom had been standing in the kitchen, putting the rest of the food away and looking confused. She’d asked me why Marco had left, and I hadn’t had a good answer. Hell, I hadn’t had any answer at all, because I didn’t know. I’d muttered something about a phone call and, sensing a dark mood about to descend, my mom had finished cleaning up the kitchen and taken off, leaving me to brood in peace.

Nine hours later, I’m still brooding, _and_ my cat has abandoned me for a less mopey and noisy thing to sleep on.

I give up on sleeping and hoist myself out of bed, grabbing my phone and padding after Parvati into the living room. She’s finally lying in her damn bed, and gives me the evil eye, like I’m going to come and drag her back into the bedroom. “Chill, you’re a terrible conversationalist,” I tell her, and she goes back to sleep.

I drop onto the couch, my head in my hands. I need to talk to someone. I need a different perspective on all this. Maybe someone else can see something that I’ve been missing.

I open my phone and start scrolling through the numbers. Eren’s out; I have no idea what time it is out in the Pacific ocean so he probably wouldn’t pick up anyway, and it was frankly his shitty advice that got me into this situation in the first place. I’m not going to talk to my mom about this, definitely not, and asking my uncle about anything emotional is completely out of the question. I consider my aunt Isabelle, briefly, but then discard the idea; she’d tell my uncle, and then I’d have to deal with him trying to use human emotions at work. I pause as I scroll past Reiner’s name, and think about calling him; he’s been a good friend the last few weeks, and he’s seen Marco and I together more than almost anyone. But then he’s been Marco’s friend longer, and coming whining to him might seem like I’m asking him to choose between his friends. I’m not going to do that to him, not when I’m pretty sure I’d lose in a friendship loyalty battle between myself and Marco.

A sudden pang of longing hits me in the chest, and it’s a good thing I’m already sitting down or I’d collapse. I miss my dad. He’d know what to do, or he’d at least listen and then reassure me and tell me it’d all be okay. He never even knew I turned out to be bi, but he’d always supported me, even when I was a shitty, obnoxious teenager, and I miss him so badly right now it’s a physical pain.

Something mews close by, and I feel the slightest pressure, like a tiny cloud, on the top of my bare foot. I look down, and Parvati is sitting at my feet, one paw on my foot, looking up at me worriedly and meowing. My vision blurs a little, and I drop my phone as I reach down to scoop her up and hold her against my chest, where she starts trying to purr the hurt away at once.

~*~

Later, when I’ve got myself under control again and Parvati is back in her bed, licking her shoulder and dealing with her damp fur, I find my phone between the couch cushions and open my contacts list again. Really, there was only one possibility from the start, and I should’ve just accepted it, no matter how pathetic it makes me.

**Jean Kirschtein: hey  
Jean Kirschtein: you up?  
Jean Kirschtein: I know it’s late but I need to talk**

**Hitch Dryse: jeaaaaaaaaaan  
Hitch Dryse: what cant it wait until morning**

Local man contacts ex for advice with current love problem. I’ve reached new lows.

**Jean Kirschtein: do you think I’d be texting you if it could? >:(**

**Hitch Dryse: dont make that emote at me mister  
Hitch Dryse: i will not be swayed so easily **

**Jean Kirschtein: >:( >:( >:(**

**Hitch Dryse: UGH  
Hitch Dryse: YOU SUCK**

**Jean Kirschtein: >:(!!!!**

**Hitch Dryse: ok FINE  
Hitch Dryse: jesus christ ur needy  
Hitch Dryse: whats ur problem**

**Jean Kirschstein: Marco :(**

**Hitch Dryse: FOR FUCKS SAKE  
Hitch Dryse: Y ARE U 2 NOT FUCKING YET**

**Jean Kirschtein: I DON’T KNOW  
Jean Kirschtein: THAT’S WHAT I WANT TO TALK ABOUT**

**Hitch Dryse: JEAN  
Hitch Dryse: JEAN IM BEGGING U  
Hitch Dryse: U NEED TO GET THAT D  
Hitch Dryse: THE WAIT IS KILLING US**

**Jean Kirschstein: wait what  
Jean Kirschstein: the fuck are you talking about?**

There’s a long pause before she responds, and I swear I can hear her cursing in my head.

**Hitch Dryse: nothing**

**Jean Kirschstein: yeah bullSHIT nothing what’re you talking about?**

**Hitch Dryse: NO  
Hitch Dryse: THING**

**Jean Kirschstein: >:(**

**Hitch Dryse: fuck u  
Hitch Dryse: or no  
Hitch Dryse: go fuck Marco and stop complaining**

**Jean Kirschstein: I’M TRYING!  
Jean Kirschstein: except  
Jean Kirschstein: I think we got in a fight today?**

**Hitch Dryse: wut**

**Jean Kirschstein: yeah**

**Hitch Dryse: shit  
Hitch Dryse: ok u can come over  
Hitch Dryse: but b quiet annies sleeping**

**Jean Kirschstein: thank you  
Jean Kirschstein: on my way**

I stand up, the joints in my legs creaking as I get off the couch, and Parvati twitches in her bed as I walk past her to put on something more presentable. I don’t bother changing out of my pajama pants or old t-shirt—the Jinae Eagles one, which I’ve been wearing to bed and is starting to smell more like me than Marco—but I put on my socks and grab my leather jacket before heading out the door.

Hitch’s building isn’t far, and I decide to walk instead of getting Adelaide out. Our neighborhood is plenty safe, even at night, and the chilly air against my face helps wake me up. It also makes me realize that fall is drawing to a close and winter will be here soon, and I groan out loud when my mind immediately turns to what Marco might like for Christmas. I don’t even know if we’ll still be friends at Christmas, let alone that we might have advanced to a level where I could get him the kind of thing that immediately comes to mind.

Hitch’s doorman recognizes me and lets me in, asking pleasantly about my health and general well-being. I answer as quickly as I can, and hurry to the elevator, riding it all twelve floors to Hitch’s place.

I don’t bother knocking; I have my own copy of her key, one I was given a long time ago so I could water her plants and feed Simon, her pet boa constrictor, whenever Hitch is on vacation. I don’t use it very often, though, so I fumble with it, cursing under my breath as it jangles loudly against my other keys. I find it eventually and slip it into the keyhole, hearing the tumblers turn inside the door and pushing it open.

It happens so fast I don’t even register it until it’s over: something hits me in the solar plexus, _hard_ , and the next thing I know, I’m flat on my back with someone’s foot on my neck, gagging for air and looking up a shapely, well-muscled leg towards a creature that’s just a blur above me. I flail at my attacker’s ankle, trying to suck air around the heel pressing into my throat, and the pressure lets up a little, allowing me to suck in a quick breath. Delicious oxygen fills my lungs, my vision clears around the edges, and I get my first good look at whoever attacked me.

Annie. Of course it’s Annie, and I can see the recognition dawning on her face as she looks down her leg at me. Her hair is mussed and standing up all over the place, her eyes puffy with sleep, her arms drawn up in a classic fighting stance which she drops as she recognizes me. She eases the weight on my neck without taking her foot off me, and calls over her shoulder, “Hitch? Is Jean supposed to be here?”

“Huh? Babe, what’re you… yeah, Jean is supposed to be here.” Hitch’s voice drifts in from the living room, and I’ve never heard anything as sweet. Yes, I’m supposed to be here, I’m not trying to break in, please take your foot off my neck and let me breathe like a normal person.

Annie looks down at me, then shrugs and steps back, taking her foot off me. I immediately flop over on my side and get an elbow underneath myself, sucking in great, whooping breathes that are equal parts burn and soothing balm on my battered throat. Annie waits until I’ve got myself under control, then offers me a hand. “Sorry about that.”

I take it, and she pulls me up in one quick, effortless motion. She might be tiny, but she’s _strong_. “It’s okay,” I rasp, and a few lines in her forehead that I barely noticed before disappear; I realize that this is her relieved face. “Didn’t know… who I was.”

She nods, then glances over her shoulder to the living room. “I don’t want anyone hurting Hitch,” she says in an undertone, like it’s something she’s embarrassed to admit. She looks down at herself and blinks, like she just remembered she’s wearing a tank-top and boxer shorts, and melts away, hurrying down the hall towards the bedroom. “She’s in the living room,” she says by way of goodbye.

I gingerly rub at my abused neck, but it doesn’t feel like it’s going to bruise. When I call to Hitch, I sound croaky but otherwise normal. “I’m getting a Keurig, you want one?”

“Hot chocolate!” she trills, and I close the door, locking it behind me, and go to the kitchen to raid Hitch’s Keurig stash.

Hitch is curled up on her couch, bundled in a thick blanket, and she reaches out with both hands when I come in a few minutes later. I hand her her hot chocolate, and she smiles when she sees that I added whipped cream and cinnamon on top. “You remembered!”

“Of course I did.” I sit down next to her and sip my own hot chocolate—whipped cream, no cinnamon, a touch of cardamom. “I’ve only made it for you a million times.”

“Okay, so what’s going on with Marco?” Leave it to Hitch to get right to the point.

I tell her the whole story, starting with how I fell asleep at his place and ended up napping on his leg (“You didn’t go get in bed with him? What’s wrong with you, he totally wanted you to!”), to how he kissed my hand in the car (“Did you touch his face? Tell me you touched his face!”), to how he napped with his head on my shoulder in the vet’s office and sleep-talked about a baby (“Oh my god, Jean, _why didn’t you just kiss him then_?!”), and finishing with how I thought we were going to kiss, like, _really kiss_ , today, but got interrupted by a phone call. Midway through my story, Annie pads into the room, wearing one of Hitch’s robes and with her hair combed. To my surprise, she sits down on my other side and listens quietly to the rest of my story, never interrupting unlike certain other rude parties.

“And then he left,” I finish, and put my head down into my hands. “He got that weird phone call, and then he just _left_ , and I don’t know what I did wrong!”

I don’t see it, not with my head down, but I feel the look that passes between Hitch and Annie. It’s one of those smug, knowing couple looks, and if I wasn’t so sad, it would irritate the shit out of me.

“I don’t think you did anything wrong, Jean. Not this time.” Hitch nudges me with her foot. “I think you need to talk to the guy.”

“We talk all the time!”

“You need to talk about _relationship_ stuff!”

“But what am I supposed to say?!” I’m frustrated because I know she’s right, and I lift my head out of my hands so I can glare at her. “Oh, hey Marco, I think you’re super hot and a great guy and I’d like to get to know you better, you know, like Biblically, but we keep getting cockblocked and I think my dick is going to _fall off_ if we don’t move things along soon?”

Hitch’s face got more and more pinched, more and more irritated, as I ranted, and she looks like she’s ready to explode by the time I’m done. Good, maybe I want to fight, maybe having a screaming match would release some of the tension in my chest.

“I wouldn’t go about it that way.” A cool, placid voice interrupts me, and both Hitch and I turn to look at Annie. She’s clearly been listening the whole time, and looks positively bored by it all. “Getting confrontational isn’t going to work with Marco.”

I deflate, letting out the breath I’d been holding to scream at Hitch through my nostrils, and reach for my hot chocolate. “So what would work?”

I ask the question sarcastically, and Annie shoots me a withering glance, but she considers it, tapping on her lower lip with one finger. “Honesty.”

I can’t help it; I laugh. “Honesty? Honesty has never gotten me _anywhere_.”

“It’s true, it hasn’t,” Hitch chimes in, and I probably deserve that.

Annie sighs, like we’re the two dumbest slobs she’s ever had to deal with. “Do you want to fuck him or do you want to be his boyfriend? Because you’ll need honesty to get one of those two things.”

I open my mouth, ready to throw another sarcastic quip back at her, but then Hitch kicks me in the leg. I turn on her, pissed off and ready to start our early disagreement up again, but she has a serious expression on her face, one that looks so out of place that it stops me before I can say a word. “If you’d been honest with me about what you were going through, we could’ve ended things a lot better,” she says.

And that hurts. That hurts bad, because I know she’s right. If I’d just told her what I’d been going through, that I was so upset about Eren’s internship and him leaving because I’d started to realize my feelings for him weren’t just brotherly, that I was learning something new and scary about myself, that I was sorting through a lot of big, life-changing issues and doing them all on my own, we wouldn’t have hurt each other so badly. We wouldn’t have lasted—hindsight tells me that Hitch and I are terrible as a couple, much better as friends—but we wouldn’t have eviscerated each other getting out. At least, I hope we wouldn’t have taken the scorched earth approach to the end of our relationship.

“I know,” I mutter, letting my head hang forward, not meeting her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a moment of silence, silence I find contemplative, before Hitch giggle-snorts gleefully. “Did you hear that, babe? He’s never apologized before!”

“I did,” and there’s the faintest hint of amusement in Annie’s voice. “You have a witness.”

They both dissolve into giggles, Hitch’s loud and uninhibited, Annie’s quiet and controlled, and after a few moments, I join in. It just seems like way too much effort to get mad, especially over something so far in the past. Maybe I’m finally growing up after all.

“Okay, so I’m an asshole,” I announce, once we’re all settled down a little. “I mean, no surprises there. But what do I do about this Marco thing?”

Hitch sighs, but there’s affection in the sound, and she reaches over and ruffles my hair for the split second it takes me to realize what she’s doing and escape. “Talk to him, Jeanbo.”

I roll my eyes so hard they practically roll out of my skull and end up on the floor. I’ve been called Jeanbo enough for one day, thank you very much. “How?”

She shrugs. “Hey Marco, we’ve been spending a lot of time together lately and I think you’re a great guy, and I was wondering if maybe you’d like to ride my baloney pony while I make neighing noises into the night?”

This kind of sass will not stand. I snatch a pillow off the couch and pummel her with it, while she shrieks with laughter and defends herself from the onslaught. I’m not really trying, though, remembering all too well having Annie’s foot in my throat, and stop after I get a few good hits in.

“That wasn’t a bad start,” Annie tells her, once we’ve both calmed down, “but I’d leave off the part about the baloney pony.”

“ _Definitely_ leaving off that part,” I agree, setting my pillow weapon carefully beside my hip, so Hitch can’t kick me again. “What should I say instead?”

I get the feeling Annie is getting a little irritated with how dense I am, and probably just wants to go back to bed, but she answers gamely anyway. “Tell him you’re confused about the mixed signals you’re getting, and ask him how he feels.”

“That’s a good idea!” Hitch pipes up. “Marco’s a lot more in touch with his feelings than you are, he’d probably talk to you about them!”

“You think he would?” This sounds deceptively easy, like it’s too good to be true.

Annie shrugs. “Maybe. Probably.”

“He’s probably as pent up as you are,” Hitch supplies helpfully, raising her arms up in case I decide to launch another pillow attack. “He might tell you he’s been waiting for you to ask, and then invite you to ride the Italian stallion.”

I groan at that. “Wow, do you think he’d role-play Rocky and Adrian with me?”

“What?”

“Never mind.” Cultural ingrate. Annie’s smiling into her hand though, so she got it, and that pleases me. “I just… you get why I’m confused, right? Why none of this makes sense?”

Hitch and Annie exchange another one of those knowing, couple-y glances. “I get it,” Hitch says, speaking slowly, and she looks to Annie for help.

“Marco has his own things going on,” Annie says elusively, and she raises a hand when I turn on her, desperate for more information. “I’m not going to tell you what they are, because it’s not my story to tell, but trust me, it will all make sense when he explains it.”

I narrow my eyes at her, suddenly suspicious, my mind whirling wildly and concocting all sorts of scenarios, each more dire than the last. “Does he have a boyfriend that he’s trying to break up with? It’s that fancy blond guy, isn’t it?”

Annie blinks, clearly taken aback. “What fancy blond guy?”

“The one in his Facebook.” They both look completely blank, which is heartening, so I plow onward. “You know, the older guy! Blond, wears suits all the time, takes Marco to events and shit?” 

Annie’s eyes widen. “You mean _Erwin_?”

“Yeah, Erwin, that’s his name! That guy!” I just admitted to being a total Facebook stalker, and I don’t care. I lean in closer to Annie, eager to get any information she might have about Schrodinger’s Sugar Daddy.

She bursts out laughing, high, bright peals of laughter that sound so completely foreign coming from her that I sit back in surprise. Hitch joins her a moment later, and I’m surrounded by people laughing at a joke that I don’t get, one that feels like it’s being made at my expense.

“ _What_?” I demand. “What’s so funny?”

Annie gets her laughter under control long enough to pat me on the arm, her hand tiny and cool against my skin. “Nothing. Just… Erwin is _not_ Marco’s boyfriend. Trust me on this.”

“Then who is he?”

She shakes her head, her hair falling into her eyes. “Marco’s story, not mine. But you don’t have any competition from Erwin.”

No matter how much I whine and wheedle, Annie won’t tell me any more than that. Whoever this Erwin guy is, it sounds like he and Marco are not, and have never been, in a relationship, so that’s a relief. Still, it’s another thing I have to ask him about, and I’m not looking forward to broaching that particular topic. Hey Marco, so I stalked your Facebook and I’m weirdly jealous of this guy on there that your other friends say isn’t your boyfriend but who you look really comfortable with, so please tell me all about him and who he is to you and soothe my frazzled insecurity? Great, I can just imagine how that conversation is going to go.

I sigh and flop backwards on the couch, looking up at the ceiling. “I just don’t know, you guys. I just… I wish this was easier.”

“You always wish things were easier,” Hitch says flippantly, and dammit, she’s right. “Maybe you’ll get something really good out of trying something hard for a change.”

“You should do it,” Annie says unexpectedly, and she sounds so solemn that I turn to look at her in surprise. She’s not looking at me, gazing off somewhere into the distance, chewing on her lower lip. “You _have_ to do it.”

“Why?” Normally I’d make a snide remark about our friends shipping us together and it being creepy, but she looks so serious that it knocks the humor right out of me. She looks older, all of a sudden, like someone ancient and wise, about to impart great wisdom.

“Because of what Reiner said.”

“Reiner?” Not the answer I was expecting at all. “What’s Reiner got to do with this?”

She sighs and rakes a hand through her hair, shifting on the couch. “Look, Reiner gets these… these _feelings_ sometimes, okay? It doesn’t happen very often, but when it does…” She trails off, and glances at me out of the corner of her eye. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

I kind of already do, a little bit, but I want to know where this is going. “I don’t think you’re crazy.”

“Yes, you do.” She narrows her eyes at me and crosses her arms over her chest. “When you first came to yoga, Reiner took one look at you and then told Bertolt and me, ‘That’s him. That’s the one Marco’s been waiting for.’”

“The one Marco’s been waiting for?” I echo her in disbelief. “The hell does that mean?”

She tosses a hand up in irritation. “I don’t know, go ask him! I’m just repeating what he said!”

“You said he gets feelings sometimes,” Hitch interrupts, leaning in in interest, her shoulder bumping into mine. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like. Reiner gets these feelings about people sometimes, and when he does, he’s always right.” Annie turns to look at us, and I can’t speak for Hitch, but I know I must look like the most cynical, disbelieving fuck to ever walk the earth, because she sighs again, agitated. “I didn’t meet Reiner until I was fifteen, when the state finally got all their shit in order and they came to pick me up from the state home.” I open my mouth, ready to ask a question about how all this transpired, but Annie shoots daggers at me with her eyes and Hitch elbows me in the ribs, and I shut it, holding my peace for now. “It’s usually just the adults that come, when that happens, but Reiner insisted on coming along. I was waiting in the holding room when this huge guy comes barreling in and goes right for me.” She smiles a tiny bit, remembering. “I laid him out, flat on his back.”

I snort and Hitch giggles, and Annie looks at us approvingly. “His parents came around the corner a second later, and there was their son, sprawled out on his back with me standing over him, and I thought that was going to be it, I was going to stay in the home until I was eighteen. But then Reiner jumps to his feet, all smiles, and holds out his hand for me to shake, introducing himself and calling me his little sister.” She grows serious again. “He _knew_. He knew who I was, and that we were supposed to be connected.” Hitch and I don’t say anything, and she continues a moment later. “Then, after we got everything out and were leaving, he turned to me and asked where my friend was, and if we’d be seeing him around soon.”

“Who was he talking about?” Hitch asks breathlessly, caught in the spell of the story.

Annie tucks her hair behind her ear, taking her time answering. “Bertolt.”

We all sit in silence after that, absorbing everything Annie has said. I… I don’t know what to think. It all sounds like bullshit, really; Reiner having weird psychic powers and getting “feelings” about people in his life? It’s nonsense, Stephen King pulp novel bullshit. But it’s _appealing_ bullshit, especially since he ended up being right, at least about Annie and Bertolt. I want to ask about other feelings he’s gotten, ones that weren’t right, but this seems like a sensitive topic for Annie, and I’d rather not have her mad at me. There’s a lot more to the story here, and I kind of want to text Reiner immediately and get his version, but it’s late and I’m sure he’s in bed by now.

Almost as though summoned by my thoughts, my phone chirps and vibrates in my pocket, making us all jump. I scramble to get it out and check it, relieved that it’s broken the odd tension in the room.

**Marco Bott: Hi, Jean.  
Marco Bott: I’m sorry to be texting you so late, but I want to apologize for earlier today.  
Marco Bott: I took off all of a sudden, and that was rude of me.  
Marco Bott: So, I’m sorry.**

“It’s him!” I hiss, and it’s suddenly just like high school, with two girls draped over my shoulders and looking down at my phone.

“Awww, look how sweet he’s being!” Hitch burbles, while Annie gives me a smug look that can only mean _I told you so_. “Answer him!”

**Jean Kirschstein: it’s okay  
Jean Kirschstein: you’re not bothering me  
Jean Kirschstein: is everything okay with you?**

**Marco Bott: It’s fine now, thanks. :)  
Marco Bott: Maybe we can talk about it over lunch tomorrow?**

Hitch tries to grab my phone out of my hands, and it’s only through some impressively athletic maneuvering that I keep her from getting it. “Tell him yes!” she demands. “That’s a date, he’s asking you on a date!”

“I know, I know!”

“This really is just like high school,” Annie observes, her voice as dry as dust.

**Jean Kirschstein: sure, that sounds great  
Jean Kirschstein: what time?**

**Marco Bott: Is twelve o’clock okay?  
Marco Bott: We could go to that diner down the street from the smoothie shop near the yoga studio.**

**Jean Kirschstein: a greasy spoon diner?  
Jean Kirschstein: sounds right up my alley**

**Marco Bott: Great! See you then.**

**Jean Kirschstein: good night**

I sit back on the couch, my phone cradled across my knees, and Hitch and Annie swoop in to read what we wrote to each other. I let them, not caring what they see, because my heart is hammering in my chest, and I feel giddy and terrified and elated all at once. This is a date I’m going on tomorrow, it’s definitely a date, and he asked me on it, and maybe I should just be honest with him and admit my interest, and we can stop dancing around each other and actually _start_ something. The thought of starting something, of being in a relationship, is both titillating and horrifying, and I swallow hard, wondering if I should bring up my concern to Annie and Hitch. I’m thinking no, that I’d be better off talking to Reiner, when my phone vibrates in my hands again, and Hitch lets loose with a delighted whoop and Annie says “Well, then,” approvingly. I bring it up, close to my face so I can read it, and what I see written there gives me butterflies, filling my stomach and fluttering under my skin.

**Marco Bott: xoxo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what's Marco's deal? We just don't know.
> 
> I know what's going to happen in the next chapter--and pretty much every chapter from here on out--but I got smacked by some writer's block this weekend. Hopefully I'll have a new chapter up next Monday, but no guarantees. Alert for a potential week's hiatus, I guess?


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco's deal.

I sleep surprisingly well when I get home, despite the way my ears are still ringing from Hitch’s excited cackling, and I wake up refreshed the next morning. Parvati, who had been sleeping on my pillow when I got back, is sprawled across my face, her paws dangling near my ears and her chin propped on my forehead, drooling into my hair as she sleeps. Charming.

I reach up and tickle her feet. “Parvaaaaati… Paaaaaarvaaaaati…”

She makes a grumpy noise and flicks her tail, landing the tip of it in my mouth. I sputter, knocking it out, and she slides off my face and lands on the pillow. Giving me a narrow-eyed look, she stretches out to her full length and rolls over, claiming the pillow as her own.

“Fine, be that way,” I tell her, and get up to take a shower.

It’s while I’m in the shower, hot water sluicing down my face, that it all sinks in. Marco and I are going on a date today. It’s going to be a _real_ date, one without our friends hanging around and watching, one where it’s just the two of us, and I’m getting tingles just thinking about it. And he sent me a text with x’s and o’s in it! Kisses! Hugs! Hugs are great, I like hugs from Marco, but kisses! I know I’d like kisses, and everything that comes after kisses, even more, and I’m taking that text as definitive proof that Marco is interested in kisses. Kisses with me!

I’m grinning so hard it’s making my face hurt, and I don’t even care. I scrub my hair briskly, trying to ignore the way my cock has gotten just as excited as the rest of me and is demanding my immediate and undivided attention. No, cock, no attention for you right now; I want you fresh and ready to go if Marco decides he wants to come home with me after lunch. Or if I decide to go home with him. Or if I just push everything off the table at the diner and launch myself at him right then and there. The point is, I want it ready to go, should the situation require it.

Just the mere thought of it, of what might happen today, is enough to kick butterflies up in my stomach again, and I consider calling Reiner again. 

But no, that’s putting the cart before the horse, so to speak, and I don’t want to jinx it.

I will, _however_ , allow myself the luxury of spending as much time as I want on my hair this morning. _It will be perfect_.

~*~

I leave with plenty of time to spare, although not without playing with Parvati a little and getting cat hair all over my jeans. I try to wipe most of it away, but it clings like nothing I’ve ever seen before. “I guess you want all the other cats to know that I’m claimed,” I tell her, and she looks awfully smug about the idea. I leave the hair; it’s evidence that Parvati and I are getting along, and I want to impress Marco.

I find myself singing along with Adelaide’s stereo as I drive to the diner, tapping my hands on the steering wheel and hoping iTunes shuffles to stuff that I like to sing. The Apple gods are smiling upon me today, and I take it as a good omen that iTunes shuffles to things I love, even if they’re sappy and ridiculous. Look, sometimes a man just needs to sing along to Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, and he shouldn’t be judged for doing so! As I turn off the main street and start driving down the side street the diner and smoothie shop are on, my phone shuffles to _Bohemian Rhapsody_ , and I can’t help it, I let loose with a little crow of delight. Queen is one of my favorite bands—always has been, always will be—and _Bohemian Rhapsody_ is proof that sirens are real and walk among us. I’ve never known anyone who can hear those opening chords and then _not_ sing along, which is proof that Freddy Mercury was a siren all along.

Of course, the only problem with _Bohemian Rhapsody_ is that it’s so damn long, and it’s just getting to the best part as I pull into the parking lot behind the diner. I park Adelaide and just sit there, singing along like a total dork, complete with hand gestures and everything. I’ve even got my arms crossed for the “Bismalah!” part when someone taps on the passenger side window.  
 I nearly jump out of my skin, and it’s only through the grace of god that I don’t let loose with a high-pitched little shriek. I turn around, and it’s Marco—of course it is—leaning down so he can look in the window, his eyes crinkled with laughter at the corners, smiling that big, gorgeous grin that just makes me want to eat him whole. I dive for the stereo and the door lock button at the same time, and Marco opens the door and slides into the car just as I’m scrambling to turn down the volume.

“No, don’t!” He grabs my wrist before I can reach the volume knob, slamming the car door behind him with the other one. “This is the best part!”

I gape at him, my mouth partially open, and he just beams at me, holding my wrist as Freddy crescendos upward, higher and higher until it sounds like his voice will crack— _.. has a devil put aside for me… for meeee…. for MEEEEEEEE_ —and as soon as the vocals break, he lets go, puts both hands up in the air, and starts head banging. The cutest, sweetest, more wonderful guy in the world, and he’s head banging in my car, really throwing his head back and forth like he knows what he’s doing, and I can’t help; I lean on Adelaide’s steering wheel and dissolve into helpless, gasping laughter.

“C’mon, Jean, don’t leave me hanging!” Marco reaches across the seats and smacks me in the shoulder, and I drag myself up and start head banging with him, albeit with less enthusiasm. Then Freddy starts singing again, and Marco starts singing with him, and… and there’s another thing that makes him amazing, he’s got a beautiful singing voice. I grew up with a mom who used to be a semi-professional singer so I know what constitutes a good singing voice, and Marco’s is _gorgeous_. I’m almost embarrassed to sing along with him, but then he shoots me another one of those playful, encouraging expressions, and I join him.

I was never any good at this heavy metal part of the song, but then the style shifts again. The head banging stops and Marco puts both his arms up in the air, as high as he can get them in the cramped space of the car, and starts waving them back and forth. I put mine up too, and we just sway together for a few moments— _ooooh yeah, oooooh yeah_ —as the song starts to taper to its close.

_Nothing really matters… anyone can see… nothing really matters… nothing really matters… to me…_

We sing the last line together, our voices harmonizing surprisingly well, and then he pins me with a look so intense that my breath stops in my chest, and he sings the last line alone.

“Any way the wind blows…” and then there’s just the sound of wind chimes tinkling through the speakers as we stare at each other from across the car, and the air is electrified, full of promise and energy, and I watch as he licks his lips, his shoulders shifting towards me.

iTunes, that cruel mistress, chooses to shuffle to Rammstein next, and angry German fills the car. The moment breaks, Marco sits back, and I curse as I turn off the stereo.

“You have a beautiful voice, Jean!” Marco enthuses as soon as the furious German yelling is gone.

“Thanks.” I start to run a hand through my hair, then stop at the last moment, remembering all the work I put into it. “So do you.”

“Thank you.” His cheeks color a little bit, like he’s pleased with the compliment. “I used to sing in high school.”

“Yeah?” I lean across the seat and elbow him in the ribs, making him jump a little. “Musical theater? Were you in aaaaaall the plays?”

“Not _all_ of them,” he says defensively, shoving me away with one hand, and I try not to relish how he’s got his hand on my face. “Just the ones with singing.”

“Please tell me you were Curly in Oklahoma! Tell me that was a thing.”

“God, _no_!” Marco’s face scrunches up like he’s tasted something nasty. “Rodgers and Hammerstein are _the worst_!”

I knew I liked this guy for a reason. “Damn straight. I don’t think we could keep being friends if you were a Rodgers and Hammerstein fan.”

The lines smooth out of Marco’s face, and he smiles at me before opening the car door, letting a blast of cold air in. “C’mon, let’s go get some lunch.”

I get out and lock up Adelaide before following Marco in, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy walking behind him and checking out the view. He’s wearing tighter pants than usual today, and yoga treats his ass and thighs right. He’s heavier than I am just in general, beefy and muscular while still managing to be lean and fast, but his thighs are especially delicious. They’re heavier than the rest of him, long and thick with muscle, and they’re highlighted perfectly in his more form-fitting pants. I think I’d kill to see him wearing a pair of skinny jeans, and I entertain myself fantasizing about him grabbing a pair of mine off the floor and sliding into them after spending some time with those thighs wrapped around my head, so I’m not ready at all when we turn a corner and _he’s_ there.

I nearly stop dead in my tracks, my fantasy shattering into a million splintered little pieces as _he_ come into view, sitting in one of the booths and sipping a cup of coffee. Schrodinger’s Sugar Daddy; Tall, Blond, and Handsome; He of the Perfectly Manicured Eyebrows, and goddammit, he’s even more gorgeous in person. He’s got one of those faces that looks like it’s carved from marble, like it should be on exhibit in a museum somewhere, and I’m torn between wanting to punch it and wanting to sit down and draw it. He lifts one eyebrow in a dramatically timed, elegantly perfect arch, and Marco puts a hand on his shoulder before turning back to me and smiling weakly.

“Jean, I’d like you to meet Erwin.”

_Erwin_. The guy Annie and Hitch _assured_ me wasn’t Marco’s boyfriend, but here he is crashing our date, and I narrow my eyes at him. I’m sure I’m making myself look even more like a criminal than usual, and I don’t care. _I don’t want him here_.

But then I realize that Marco must have asked him here for a reason, and if I’m being a jerk to his friend, then that’s going to make me look bad. It’s for that reason, and that reason only, that I swallow my pride and extend my hand out to Erwin McEyebrowpants. “Hi. Jean Kirschstein.”

Erwin continues looking at me for a few seconds, a smooth, implacable gaze that I know means he’s sizing me up, and possibly finding me wanting, before he lifts his hand to shake. He uses his left hand, though, grasping mine like he’s going to kiss the back of it instead of shake it, and I glance at Marco in confusion. Marco very pointedly looks down at Erwin’s shoulders, and when I look back at Sugar Daddy TooGoodforEveryoneButNotGoodEnoughforMarco, I see what I missed the first time. I was too busy glaring at his handsome, stupidly perfect face to notice how Erwin’s right sleeve is pinned up, close to his shoulder, with empty space occupying the area where his right arm should be. No wonder the guy is shaking hands weird; he doesn’t have a right hand to shake.

I make a split second decision, one that I have no idea is the right decision or not, but I’m going with my gut here. I carefully pull my right hand out of Erwin ShinyShampooCommerical’s left hand, and replace it with my left, so we can shake properly. The corner of his mouth twitches up just a little when I do, and his eyes soften the tiniest bit, no longer quite so frosty, and I think I’ve made the right choice. 

That doesn’t stop him from trying to crush my left hand in his grip, though.

“Erwin Zacharius,” he tells me in a rich, nuanced baritone that could make panties drop from fifty yards away. I can just imagine the waitresses fanning themselves behind the counter.

“Zacharius?” I ask as I slip into the booth across from him, quietly nursing my throbbing left hand under the table. Thank god that isn’t my drawing hand. “You mean, like Dr. Zacharius?”

Erwin smiles, and although it’s a faint, indulgent one, it reaches his eyes. “Do you mean my younger brother or my nephew?”

“Either or, I guess.” Sweet Jesus, the Wookie is the _younger_ brother. Looking over Erwin’s face, I think I can see a family resemblance. He clearly got the Smug Hottie genes in the family, but his hair is almost the same color as Reiner’s—although much more liberally interspersed with silver, I’m pleased to note—and he’s broad through the shoulders like his Wookie younger brother. What _is_ it with this family and them showing up everywhere in my life lately?

Marco slips into the booth opposite me, and Erwin moves over to make room for him. That hurts, more than I’d like to admit, but I swallow it down. No point in getting bent out of shape if they’re about to tell me they’re engaged. Or try to solicit a threesome. Which I wouldn’t necessarily say no to, although with some extreme caveats.

“So…” I start, and pin my gaze on Marco, ignoring Sexy McDouchenugget for the time being.

He holds up his hands. “I’m sorry, I know this looks weird, I promise I’m going to explain, okay? Let’s just… order some food first.”

“Marco,” Erwin says, and there’s a hint of warning in his voice, something almost paternalistic.

“I said I’d do it, and I’m going to do it!” Marco snaps at him, and I lean my elbows on the table, fascinated in spite of myself by this little display. “I just… the waitstaff doesn’t need to know, and I don’t want them interrupting.”

Almost as if on cue, a waitress shows up and tells us about the specials in a bored voice. I’m barely listening, watching Erwin and Marco interact with a more critical eye now. They’re obviously comfortable with each other, comfortable enough to nag and bitch at each other, but there doesn’t seem to be a great deal of warmness between them. Marco is sitting ramrod straight, clutching his menu with both hands, and Erwin makes no move to get closer to him, content to stay on his side of the booth and peruse the menu while listening to the waitress with half an ear. When she’s done telling us the specials, Marco orders a vegetarian egg white omelet with whole wheat toast, Erwin gets a short stack of blueberry pancakes, and I order whatever the special is that I wasn’t listening to. She leaves with the menus held to her chest, dazzled by the astonishingly white smile Erwin had flashed at her.

“Okay,” Marco says, his head down and both his hands wrapped around a coffee mug. Steam wafts out of it, and I can smell the earthy scent of green tea drifting across the table to me. “So you know I served…”

“Yeah, you told me that.” I spare a glance at Erwin, but his face is an unreadable mask; he watches Marco with hooded eyes and sips at his coffee, but doesn’t interrupt.

“I got hurt over there.” Marco lifts his right hand off his mug and flexes it in the air. “Nerve damage in my right hand, which I’ve told you about, and some other stuff that… that I don’t really like talking about and that isn’t important right now.”

I nod, leaning forward in my seat. I’ve never seen Marco so serious, so intense. I still have no idea why Erwin is here, but I’m going to give Marco my full attention, especially when what he’s saying obviously matters so much to him.

He sighs, his shoulders hunching in a little around his ears. “When I got home… I was a mess. Couldn’t sleep, didn’t want to eat, jumping at shadows and every little sound. And I was in physical pain all the time. Anything touching my right side was agony.”

He looks up then, and I’m seared by the fire in his eyes. “I got hooked on painkillers.”

I nod, because I don’t know what else to do. I want to reach across the table and take his hand, but I can’t, not with Smug Douche Erwin right there. “I, uh, I’ve read that happens a lot.”

“All the time,” Erwin interjects, and for the first time, there’s some emotion in his voice. “It’s appalling, the state of the VA and their approach towards…”

Marco holds up his hand again, and Erwin shuts up. The implication is clear: this is Marco’s story, Erwin, don’t make it about you. 

“I was a wreck,” he continues, looking down at his tea again, his voice flat and matter-of-fact. “I… I made a lot of really bad decisions during that time. I hurt my family and my friends, and I didn’t even realize what I was doing.” He pauses then, staying silent for so long I almost think he’s done talking, but then Erwin nudges him gently and he continues. “My sister made me drive her to a yoga class.” He makes a sound that is probably supposed to be a chuckle, but bears no resemblance at all to the laughter I’d heard in the car just twenty minutes ago. It’s hardly a laugh at all. “She had our mom on standby, in case I got stoned while she was in class and wouldn’t be able to drive her home. Which I was planning on doing… I had a bag of Oxys in my pocket, and I was going to take them and just… not have to think anymore, while she was in class. But as she was getting out of the car, she asked me if I wanted to come with her and go to class, and I…” He shrugs, his head still bent over his tea. “And I decided to go with her.”

He looks up at me then, and his eyes are shining with unshed tears. “I figured I’d stop partway through and go back to the parking lot, but… but I stayed. I did the whole class, and it was _terrible_.” I grin a little at that, remembering my first class and how much it had sucked, and Marco manages a shaky, watery smile in return. “I was as stiff as a piece of metal, I could barely breathe, I couldn’t do _a fraction_ of the poses, and I was surrounded by all these women who were older than me and bending themselves like origami. But I stayed, and I was drenched in sweat by the time I was done and aching all over, and I loved it.” His voice is getting stronger, and Erwin silently offers him a handkerchief to dab at his eyes. I kick myself for not thinking of that, but a handkerchief that’s probably made of goddamn silk is better than a handful of diner napkins. “I felt like everything had slowed down, and I could breathe better than I had in months, and even though everything else hurt, my arm and my face _didn’t_ hurt anymore.”

His face? What? I want to interrupt and ask him what he means by that, but I get the sense that Marco is only going to tell this story once, and if I stop him midway, he’ll shut down and I won’t hear the rest of it.

“My sister couldn’t believe that I’d stayed the whole class, and she was… she was so damn _happy_ , Jean, like I’d done this amazing thing, like I was better than I really was. We got ready to leave, and I was heading back towards the parking lot, higher than I’d been in a long time but without a single pill in my system, but then she started pulling on my arm. ‘I have another meeting,’ she told me, and we went to another part of the building.” His voice cracks here, and he needs to take a few moments to collect himself, wiping at his eyes with Erwin’s goddamn monogrammed handkerchief. I fidget in my seat, warring with myself, until I decide fuck it, if Erwin’s not going to do it I will, and I reach across the table and take one of Marco’s hands. He clutches it like he’s drowning and I’m his only lifeline, so hard it makes my knuckles pop, and I swear Erwin inclines his head in the faintest little approving nod. Bastard probably likes the fact that Marco’s squeezing hard enough to hurt.

“My sister… Ilse was going to Alateen meetings.” Marco breaks then, putting his face in his hand and sobbing, his shoulders quaking as he bows low over the table, and I shoot Erwin a frantic look. He’s not doing anything, the monster, just sitting there as placid and solid as a damn mountain, and I’m suddenly furious with him. Marco is bawling his eyes out, and Erwin’s not doing anything, and even if he is just a sugar daddy, he’s being a really shit one. Without letting go of Marco’s hand—which I don’t think I could get out of his grip, even if I wanted to—I stand up and move around the booth, scooting in on Marco’s other side. To his credit, Erwin gets up and moves to take my old seat, and I’m able to slide into the booth beside Marco. I put my arm around his shoulder and hold him, and he turns against me, holding onto me like he’ll never let go, his arm around my neck and his face hot and wet on my shoulder. I hold him, and let him cry, and Erwin sits there patiently, waiting for the storm to pass.

Which it does, after a few minutes; Marco’s sobs taper off, and he sits up straight again, wiping his eyes and blowing his nose—loudly and wetly, I note with glee—into Erwin’s handkerchief. “Sorry,” he mutters, ashamed, and I squeeze my arm tighter around him.

“It’s okay.” It isn’t, not really; I wish he would have told me all this yesterday, when he could have cried in the privacy of my apartment, where he wouldn’t be being watched so curiously by all the waitstaff in the diner. I push his cup of tea across the table towards him, and Marco picks it up with a shaky hand and takes a few fortifying sips. When he starts talking again, he has control of himself.

“That… because of the yoga, I was thinking clearly for the first time in months. I… it made me realize what I’d been doing to my family, and how they were hurting because of me. I sat at that meeting with Ilse, and we both cried through the whole thing.” He makes a muffled snorting sound, and I realize he’s trying to make a joke. “Kind of like we’re doing right now.”

I chuckle too. Not because it’s funny, but because I think Marco probably needs it.

“I found out that was an NA meeting after the Alateen one, and so I stayed.” He looks up then, across the table at Erwin. “That’s where I met Erwin.”

I look at Erwin too, and it all suddenly clicks together. “You’re Marco’s sponsor?”

He nods, and I swear he has an aura of _what, did you think I was his sugar daddy or something?_ around him. Smug asshole. “I’ve been Marco’s sponsor for almost three years now.” He looks pointedly at his right shoulder. “I know a little bit about having trouble adjusting to war injuries myself.”

Marco shifts beside me, and I realize I’ve still got my arm around him. I pull it free and settle into my seat next to him, and try to take my hand back but can’t, not when Marco’s grip on it is still so tight. “Look, Jean,” he says, looking down at our clasped hands, running his thumb along the back of my knuckles, “I know this is a lot to take. I’m… I’m an addict, and while I’m managing my addiction now, I’m never going to get better. I’m never going to be able to have a beer after work, or take a Tylenol when I have a headache, or be able to skip doing yoga for a week because I’m feeling lazy.”

I nod, although I’m not sure what he’s getting at. Marco, infuriatingly, chooses that moment to shut down, to look at our hands like he’s studying them for the secrets of the universe, and I can’t fill in the blanks here on my own.

Erwin speaks up, his voice soft and almost compassionate. “One of the hardest parts of any addict’s recovery is starting to have relationships again. It has the potential to compromise everything they’ve worked on and jeopardize their success.”

I stare at him blankly, unable to figure out why he’s telling me this.

Erwin blinks at me, and he must think I’m the stupidest person in the world. “Marco is like a son to me, Jean, and I don’t want his recovery jeopardized for anyone. Even you.”

“You think I’d fuck up his recovery somehow?” I sit up until my back is ramrod straight and give Erwin the glaring of a lifetime, furious at his implication. “I’m not going to fuck it up for him! I wouldn’t do anything to… to…”

“Make me relapse,” Marco fills in helpfully, and squeezes my hand. I give Erwin another dirty look before turning my attention back to Marco. He’s smiling at me, the expression wistful and almost forlorn, and I have a sudden, terrible sinking feeling in my gut. I know that expression, I know what’s coming next, but how can he dump me when we were never together to begin with?

“You’re… you’re really important to me, Jean,” Marco says, and his thumb keeps moving back and forth on my knuckles, keeps rasping over my skin until I feel like I’m going to scream. “I know we haven't known each other for very long, but…” He glances away, but only for a second, returning his gaze to mine almost immediately. “But you’re important. The only thing is…”

“Your recovery is more important,” I say, my voice harsh and grating, and Marco looks down at the table before he nods. “Yeah. Of course it is.” I pull my hand away, and this time, Marco lets me go. He stays hunched over the table as I stand up, as I glower down at Erwin. “I hope you’re fucking proud of yourself,” I tell Erwin, and his face betrays nothing of what he’s feeling, if he’s feeling anything at all.

“I’ll call you later, Marco.” Marco doesn’t say anything, just nods in response over his coffee cup. “I’m sorry, but I… I’ve got to go.”

I turn away then, before they can see how my eyes are welling up, and flee the diner, pushing past the waitress as she brings laden-down plates towards the booth, three plates where now there are only two people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's Marco's story, finally...
> 
> I managed to bust out this chapter today-- _today_ \--because I didn't want to leave you all on the hook for another week. We're in the homeward stretch for Namaste now, shouldn't be too long before it's all over.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Resolution, more or less.

I drive for hours, completely aimless. I just let Adelaide decide where to go; all I do is steer. Trost is a big city, surrounded by highways and freeways, and I stick to those, shunning the side streets where I’d have to stop and signal and pay attention to what’s going on around me. No, the highways are better, with their long, looping routes and endless pavement. I almost end up in Shingashina, but I’m aware enough to take an exit before that happens. I don’t want to be anywhere with memories, anywhere that I used to go. I want to be anonymous, I want to be unknown, I want the city to swallow me alive.

Why didn’t he tell me?

The question keeps moving through my head, dominating my thoughts, refusing to let me become numb. Why didn’t he just _say_ something? Didn’t he trust me enough? Didn’t he care enough to want me to know? Did he think I’d hate him? Did he think I’d think he was weak and pathetic? Did he think I’d laugh at him? Questions without answers, things I can’t possibly know, things that all come back to that one, irrefutable fact: why didn’t he tell me?

My phone chirps insistently from the seat beside me, but I ignore it. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now, or at least not anyone who could call me on the phone. I want… I want my dad. I desperately want to talk to my dad, to lean on his shoulder and tell him all about this, to tell him everything: about Marco, about Parvati, about how I hate the company he left behind for me more and more everyday and how I feel like I’m drowning there.

That distracts me for a moment, and I latch onto the thought, turning it over in my head. Do I hate my job? The answer comes bubbling out of my gut, clear and unequivocal: yes. Yes, I hate graphic design. I hate the monotony of it, the fine detail work over things that are, at the end of the day, tremendously unimportant, the clients with no idea what they want beyond the fact that they hate everything we do for them. Maybe it’s taken being around people who really enjoy their jobs, who love what they do, to make me realize it, but now that I have, there’s no escape. I want the kind of joy Reiner gets from his job, I want to have the kind of smooth, easy confidence Bertolt has when he’s in a kitchen, I want the sparkles Marco gets in his eyes when he’s talking about yoga. And then I’m back to Marco again, and I stop thinking about my job. My job I can deal with later, when I have time and the mental energy to tackle the idea.

Why didn't he tell me?

The phone I can ignore, but when Adelaide starts politely chiming, letting me know she’s low on gas, I pull into a gas station. It’s full service, something shocking in and of its own right, and after I tell the attendant to fill her up (premium for my baby, nothing less), I reluctantly check my phone.

**Annie Leonhart: so I hear you met Erwin**

**Hitch Dreyse: wtf jean whats wrong with u**

**Reiner Zacharius: call me when you get this  
** Reiner Zacharius: Jean?  
Reiner Zacharius: Jean, are you there?  
Reiner Zacharius: c’mon, you have your phone attached to your hip, pick up 

**Annie Leonhart: would you answer Reiner? he’s driving me crazy**

**Hitch Dreyse: JEAN  
Hitch Dreyse: JEAN WHAT DID U DOOOOOO**

**Eren Jaeger: its the middle of the night in the goddamn south pacific  
** Eren Jaeger: and fucking hitch is texting me  
Eren Jaeger: the hell is going on? 

The texts pile up on top of each other, on and on and on, until I can’t read all of them anymore and I just skim the babble, looking for anything relevant. I find one, tucked in between all the others, that catches my attention.

**Bertolt H.: He’s with me right now. I’ll take care of him.  
** Bertolt H.: But please make this right.  
Bertolt H.: I hate seeing him hurting.  
Bertolt H.: And get ahold of Reiner, please.  
Bertolt H.: I don’t like seeing him hurting either. 

Fucking Bertolt. Even in text form, he somehow manages to be sweet and shy, and I lean my forehead on Adelaide’s steering wheel, squeezing my eyes shut against fresh tears. I went and fucked up everything, with everyone, and I don’t know how to make it right.

My phone vibrates in my hand.

**Reiner Zacharius: just let us know you’re okay  
Reiner Zacharius: Hitch is ready to call the police**

For fuck’s sake. I’m not some overdramatic teenager who’s going to go drive his car off a bridge! I got dumped, not eviscerated!

**Jean Kirschstein: I’m fine, okay? everyone stop freaking out**

I send it to all of them, hoping they’ll find their chill and stop bothering me, but my phone lights up seconds later, receiving another flurry of messages.

**Hitch Dreyse: ur such a shit**

**Eren Jaeger: good  
Eren Jaeger: if i get eaten by a whale tomorrow its ur fault**

**Reiner Zacharius: okay good  
** Reiner Zacharius: where are you?  
Reiner Zacharius: call me, I need to talk to you 

**Annie Leonhart: okay  
Annie Leonhart: you almost had Hitch crying**

**Hitch Dreyse: i was NOT almost crying!!!**

**Reiner Zacharius: seriously, Jean  
Reiner Zacharius: call me**

**Eren Jaeger: im going to sleep now  
Eren Jaeger: skype me if youve got another crisis**

**Reiner Zacharius: where are you?**

**Hitch Dreyse: ok maybe a little  
Hitch Dreyse: u suck**

It almost makes me feel human again, seeing the scrolling messages fill my screen. I might be a colossal fuck-up, but at least they still care about me.

**Bertolt H.: Thank you for the message.**

That one hurts, a little. Here I am, running off and ignoring everyone, and Bertolt is back there with Marco, cleaning up my mess. My thumb hovers above my phone screen as I consider writing him back, but then another message fills my screen.

**Marco Bott: I’m so sorry, Jean. I know I dumped a lot on you today. I wanted to be able to do it better, but  
** Marco Bott: well  
Marco Bott: Anyway, we’re all glad you’re okay.  
Marco Bott: I’m with Bertolt right now. He told me to tell you that.  
Marco Bott: Again, I’m sorry. I could have done that better.  
Marco Bott: Oh, and Bertolt says to call Reiner. 

Aaaaand now I feel like absolute dog shit again. I’m the one that acted like an ass, I’m the one that caused a scene and yelled at Erwin, and Marco’s the one apologizing. He’s so much better than me at everything, and I have to close my eyes and lean back in my seat for a few moments.

Okay. Here is what I know for sure now: Marco is an addict. He’s recovered, but he’s still an addict. Erwin, his sponsor and not his sugar daddy, is worried about him relapsing if he starts a relationship. I’m an asshole who doesn’t know how to deal with this information. Here is what I can only assume, based on the evidence I’ve been given: Marco and Erwin had that talk with me today because Marco _wants_ to start a relationship, presumably with me, but also doesn’t want to relapse. So that leaves me with this, and this alone: I would do goddamn anything for Marco, and I need to find out what he needs right now instead of hiding like a little bitch.

I open my eyes, and it’s stupid, but everything seems a little brighter, a little more hopeful. I look down at my phone again, and hit Respond on one of the names on my screen.

“Jean.” Reiner picks up after the first ring, and he sounds so relieved to hear from me that I feel like an ass all over again. “Where are you?”

“Uh…” I actually have no idea, and I crane my head to look out the window, trying to see a sign that might give me some clue. “I am… halfway to Sina, wow.” I must have been really out of it if I drove that far without realizing.

“You drove a long way.” There’s no judgment in his voice, just simple observation.

“Yeah, I guess I did.”

“Are you coming back now?”

“Yeah. I’m getting Adelaide some gas, and then I’ll come back.”

“All right, good.” He sounds really pleased, and I’m touched by how much he cares. He has every right to be pissed at me, and instead he’s worrying about my well-being and happy to hear I’m coming home. “Will you meet me somewhere when you get back?”

“I… yeah.” With a pang of guilt, I remember the cat that’s probably bored out of her mind in my apartment. “I have to feed Parvati first.”

“I can meet you at your place.”

“That’d be good. I’ll text you when I’m about half an hour out?”

“Sounds good. Drive careful on the way back, yeah?”

“Yeah.” I wait for him to hang up, but he doesn’t, like he knows I have more to say and no courage with which to say it. “… thanks, Reiner. And tell Bertolt thanks too.”

He chuckles at that, low and warm. “You can thank him yourself when you see him. And you’re welcome.”

~*~

It doesn’t take as long as I’d think to get back to Trost; the highways are empty, and Adelaide is made for cruising, and it’s not long before I see the lights of the city up ahead. I push Send on the text I wrote to Reiner before leaving the gas station—my address, and the note **be there in 30** —and follow the familiar loops and curves through the heart of the city, back to my building.

I shouldn’t be surprised that Reiner managed to talk his way inside, but I am all the same. I find him in the lobby, sitting behind the desk with the doorman, chatting away about football scores and local breweries and who knows what else. He grins when he sees me and launches up out of his seat, closing the distance between us in record time and enveloping me in a huge, crushing bearhug. As I’m struggling to breathe from between his massive pecs, he whispers in my ear “If you _ever_ scare us like that again, I’m going to kick your ass, understand?”

I gargle something in response, and apparently it sounds enough like words for Reiner to take it as assent, and he relaxes his hold on me. I sag against his chest, gasping for air, as he turns and waves at the doorman. “Send me a picture of the enclosure, okay? I can help you set things up for the little guy!”

I raise an eyebrow at him as we head towards the elevator, and Reiner explains. “Daz just bought a bearded dragon for his daughter, and he’s worried about the set-up.”

“You know the doorman’s name?” I’m a little ashamed of the fact that I don’t, and he’s been my doorman for the last two years.

“Yes. He has an eight year old daughter and a three year old son.”

Fucking Reiner. “You’ve never met a stranger, have you?”

He grins as we step into the elevator. “Nope, not yet.”

We lapse into a comfortable silence as the elevator rises through the building, and Reiner follows me down my hallway. “This is a nice building,” he comments, waiting as I unlock the door.

“Yeah, it’s pretty good.” It’s a million times better than his crappy little apartment, I know, but it doesn’t feel nearly as much like a home, and I’m more worried about him picking up on that than I am about him feeling embarrassed by the economic difference between us.

I get the door unlocked and swing it open, and Parvati comes trotting down the hall immediately, her tail high in the air, meowing with indignation. Reiner’s face lights up when he sees her, and he drops to a crouch immediately. “Hello, little miss! C’mere, let me see those stitches…”

“She’s probably hungry.” And let’s just ignore how she’s hungry because I’m an asshole who took off and forgot about her. While Reiner settles down onto the floor to play with the cat, I head into the kitchen. There are still dry kibbles in her bowl and she has plenty of water, which means I’m not the worst cat-dad to ever exist, but she’s eaten all her wet food, so I’m not the best, either. I get another can of kitten chow out and pop off the lid, and seconds later I’ve got a warm little body rubbing against my ankles and purring noisily.

Reiner comes into the kitchen just as I’m putting down food for Parvati and she’s plunging her face into it. “Her stitches look really good; she’s been leaving them alone and her incision is healing right up. I should be able to take those out in a few days.”

“Okay, great.” I brace myself for a lecture about leaving her alone for the day and making her go hungry, but Reiner just wanders out of the kitchen and into the living room instead. I’m sure that if I’d done something wrong, he would have told me, and since he hasn’t…

“Maybe you’re just being greedy,” I tell Parvati, and stroke my hand over her back. She arches up into it but doesn’t lift her head from her dish, and I leave her to finish her meal and follow Reiner into the living room.

He’s standing in the middle of it, looking around, and I feel a jolt of panic; I spent some time drawing this morning, just little doodles while I ate my breakfast, and what if they’re still on the table? What if he sees them?

Reiner plops down on my couch and sighs happily, staring at the tv hanging on the opposite wall. “Guess what, Jean?”

I sit down next to him, a little more gracefully, and breathe more easily when I see that I cleaned up my papers from this morning. There are definitely fewer pencils on the coffee table than there were this morning, and I wonder where they’ve gone. “What?”

Reiner throws his arm over the back of the couch and stretches out. “I just found where I’ll be watching football games from now on.”

“Not if you’re going to be watching crap German teams, you’re not!”

He grins, not insulted in the slightest. “What’s the matter there, Frenchie, you upset because your team can’t win a match?”

“You come into my home, you insult my team, you steal my cat’s love… what is this?” Parvati jumps up onto the couch between us, and rubs her head on Reiner’s leg. “What the hell, little P?!”

Reiner laughs and runs his hand down her back. “She’s just letting you know she’s mad about being left by herself all day. Don’t worry, she’ll come around.”

“Do all cats do that?” I glare at Parvati. She seems completely unconcerned, arching her back into Reiner’s hand and purring loudly. “You know, he’s the one who took out your uterus yesterday!”

“That’s the thing I like about animals,” Reiner says as he gently picks up Parvati and deposits her in my lap. She blinks, makes a movement like she’s going to jump off and go back to him, then decides to hell with it and curls up in my lap. “They’re very forgiving.”

“I… I guess so.” Parvati looks up at me with her one eye and puts both her front paws on my leg, and I hiss between my teeth a moment later when she starts kneading her claws in and out of my leg.

“Here.” Reiner grabs a cushion off the end of the couch and slides one corner of it under Parvati’s paws. He does it so smooth and quick that she doesn’t even notice, and continues kneading and purring away, but this time without bloodshed.

“Thank you.” I pet Parvati’s back, and feel her purrs rumble up through my hand.

“My pleasure.” He looks pretty happy, watching the little scene play out between us. “Anything to help an animal in need, you know?”

“Sure.” We’re quiet for a few moments then, watching Parvati and listening to her purr. It’s a sleepy, peaceful sound, and some of the stress from the day slowly melts away.

“So,” Reiner starts, and he sounds brisk and business-like, so I know what’s coming, “let’s talk about what _else_ happened today. First of all, I owe you an apology.”

 _That_ , I did not expect. I turn and look at him, my head tilted to one side. “What? Why?”

“Because I’m the one that called Erwin and told him about you and Marco.”

“You did what?” That makes absolutely no sense.

“Yeah.” Reiner pulls his arm back and crosses them both over his chest, his brow drawing down in concern. “I saw the two of you together in the waiting room yesterday, and it looked like things were going somewhere, you know? _Finally_ going somewhere.”

“Have you… have you been watching us and waiting for something to happen?” Is he shipping his friends together?

Reiner continues on like he hadn’t heard me, which tells me the answer is yes. “I know Marco is interested in you, and has been for awhile now, and honestly,” he glances at me, “it’s pretty damn clear that you’re stupid for him too.”

I shrug; I can’t deny that, as much as it hurts to hear it.

“So I saw that, and figured you’d maybe sealed the deal, and I know Erwin cares a lot about Marco, so I called him and told him.” Reiner looks down at his crossed arms, sheepish and ashamed of himself. “I didn’t know Marco hadn’t told him.”

“But… why’d you tell him at all?” I get that Reiner is kind of a gossipy bitch, but I didn’t think he’d be _that_ close with his uncle. I work everyday with my uncle, and I’m surprised that he remembers my name half the time. Most of the time, he looks at me like I’m just a sad, sorry excuse for my dad, which is worse than him not seeing me at all.

“Because I know that Marco’s an addict, and that starting a relationship is going to be really difficult for him, and difficult for whatever lucky guy he ends up with.” Reiner turns towards me, and I shrink under the intensity of his gaze. For a second, I see Erwin and Dr. Zacharius in him, and realize just how intimidating Reiner could be, if he really wanted it. He’s not even trying right now, and I’m ready to sign over my first-born to him. “I can’t talk about addiction, because I’ve never struggled with that. But I do know what it’s like to come back from a tour, and how much it fucks with your head, getting things right again. Marco helped me a lot back then, and I _still_ almost destroyed everything between Bertolt and I, _and_ we were already in an established relationship.”

“But… but Marco’s been back from the war for six years…” I interject weakly.

“And he’s been an addict for all six of those,” Reiner points out, and there’s nothing I can say to that. 

I look down at Parvati, unable to meet Reiner’s burning gaze, and run my fingers between her ears. “So… you don’t want Marco to be with anyone?” Because that’s more and more what this is sounding like.

“What? Shit, no!” Reiner sounds honestly flabbergasted that I’d even suggest such, and I sneak a look at him out of the corner of my eye. “I think you’re really good for him, and I think he’s damn good for you.” He leans in, and I turn back towards him. “I think,” he says, completely serious and solemn, “that you’re going to be amazing together, and that you need to talk to him about his problem and find out what _he_ needs from you, instead of putting yourself first and making the drama all about you.”

It’s like a slap of cold water to the face. He’s right, of course he’s right, and I can’t believe the level of dipshittery I pulled today. “ _Fuck_ …” I bury my face in my hands, joggling Parvati and making her cling to me with her claws. “Oh god, I fucked up, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you kind of did.” A heavy, warm weight falls around my shoulders, and I realize Reiner’s put his arm around me. “Fortunately, Marco’s like an animal in some ways. He’s very forgiving.”

I lean into him for a few moments, and maybe there’s some snuffling and embarrassed emotions happening, and maybe Reiner cheerfully ignores that and lets me lean on him, playing and talking quietly with Parvati as I get control of myself.

Once I’m sure I can talk without my voice cracking, I lift my head from my hands and look at him. He’s smiling, soft and gentle, expectant, and I’m suddenly, hopelessly glad that I didn’t fuck up things with him and my other new friends when I freaked out today. “Do you know where he is right now?”

“I sure do. Do you want to go see him?”

“Yes.” I move Parvati off my lap and onto the couch before I stand up, brushing Reiner’s arm off my shoulders. “Right now.”

~*~

We go to the yoga studio, naturally; where else would Marco be?  I figured it was either there or in his apartment, buried under Loaf and Aisha with Bertolt fretting in the kitchen, and I’m glad when Reiner directs me to the studio.  The studio makes me think that Marco’s working through this, one way or another, instead of marinating in his misery like I did, and it’s just another example of a way he’s a better person than I am.

I park Adelaide next to Reiner’s beater, which Bertolt must have driven here, and we sit there for a moment.  I’m psyching myself up, and Reiner waits patiently, giving me the time I need without any judgment or a push to hurry it up.  I’m grateful for that; I don’t think I could rush this along, even if I wanted to.

“Okay,” I say, flexing my hands on the steering wheel.  “I’m ready.”

“All right.”  Reiner climbs out of the car, and waits again as I slowly unfold myself from behind the wheel, looking vaguely amused at the whole thing.  “You can lose the _march to the gallows_ expression, you know.  It’s just Marco in there, not a death squad.”

“At least with a death squad I’d know what to expect,” I mutter under my breath, and Reiner claps me on the shoulder, I think as a sign of support.

Marco and Bertolt are practicing in the same room where we have our class, the one I’ve come to think of as Marco’s room, and Reiner slows down as we get closer to it.  “Go ahead,” he whispers, and gives me a gentle shove forward.  “Go see what they’re doing.”

I give him a dirty look—sure, be that way, throw me to the sharks all on my own—and he pushes me again, a little less gentle this time, and I move up to the door and peek through the tiny square window in the middle of it.

Marco and Bertolt are in there alone, sweating and glistening under the bright studio lights.  As I watch, spellbound, they plant their hands on their mats and slowly lift both their legs up, and up, until they hook them effortlessly over their shoulders, their feet pointed straight in front of them.  The muscles in their arms cord tight as they start to shift forward, rocking onto their palms, and I gasp as they lift up off their mats until they’re balanced only on their hands, their butts completely suspended in the air and their legs behind their shoulders.

From behind me, Reiner growls approvingly.  “Let me tell you, _that_ , in the bedroom?  Best thing in the damn world.”

It’s a good thing he’s behind me, because I can feel myself flush pink at the insinuation.   
“What’re they doing?”

“Second series.  That’s the more advanced version of what we do every class.”

“Holy shit.”  There really aren’t other words for what I’m seeing, but fortunately, Reiner seems to understand.

“Holy shit,” he answers in agreement, and reaches past me towards the door knob.  “C’mon, I need to go tell Bertolt how amazing he looks right now.”

“Reiner!”  No, it’s too early, I’m not ready, but I’m too late, and though I scramble  
ineffectively at his arm, Reiner pushes the door open.

Bertolt notices us first, or rather, he notices Reiner first, as I’m still hiding behind him like a damn coward.  I’m looking over Reiner’s shoulder, though, and I see the way Bertolt’s face lights up when he sees him, the way he smiles, and it’s like watching the sun come out from behind the clouds.  It’s something so pure, so sweet and uncomplicated, that it makes my chest ache a little, and I know that I’d never be able to capture that in pencils or paints, not the way it looks right now, in this moment.

“Hi,” Bertolt says softly, and starts to untangle his legs from over his shoulders.

“No, don’t,” Reiner says, and Bertolt pauses, waiting as Reiner comes over to him and sits down on his mat, directly across from him.  Reiner spreads his legs out in a wide V and leans forward on his hands, and Bertolt leans forward too, resting his ankles on Reiner’s shoulders.  Bertolt waits, that same beatific little smile gracing his face, as Reiner shifts forward and picks himself up off the floor, balancing on his palms, and leans forward to steal a kiss.

It’s sappy and ridiculous and intimate, and I’m wildly jealous.

Their kiss lingers, starts to go deeper, and I turn away, embarrassed. It’s not that they’re not hot as hell or anything, but I don’t want to be caught staring like a creeper.

Marco is sitting on his mat, his legs crossed and his head down, a towel draped over his right shoulder. His hair is wet with exertion and hanging in front of his eyes, and he looks like he’s glowing all over, even though he has his shoulders hunched forward. He looks so miserable, so defeated and beaten down, that I can feel sadness pump through my body as well. I have to set this right.

I toe my shoes off and come into the studio, lowering myself to the ground until I’m sitting beside him. I notice a faded, barbed wire tattoo wrapping around his bicep, and I realize this is the first time I’ve seen him in a tank top, in a shirt that doesn’t have sleeves that come down to his elbows. “Hey.”

“Hey.” I can hardly hear him over the noise Bertolt and Reiner are making, and they’re not even being loud. Glancing over, I see that Reiner has pulled Bertolt into his lap, and they’re having a hushed discussion, their faces so close they’re sharing each other’s breath. I look away in a hurry, feeling like I’m spying on something I’m not supposed to see.

“So, uh… I acted like a real piece of shit today.” I’ve had to apologize for being shitty before, and it’s surprisingly easy to keep going once I’ve started. Marco’s head jerks up, but I look resolutely down at my hands in my lap, unable to meet his gaze. “You were trying to tell me something important, and I wasn’t listening or paying attention to the right parts. I was only thinking about myself, and…”

I stop; Marco has reached out and grabbed my hand, entwining our fingers together and tugging on it insistently. I look up, startled, and even though his eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, like he’s spent a good part of the day crying, he’s smiling at me. After all the shit I pulled today, Marco’s smiling at me, and I don’t deserve that. I don’t deserve him at all.

“It’s okay, Jean,” he says quietly, and Reiner’s words— _Marco’s like an animal in some ways, he’s very forgiving_ —flash through my mind. “I dumped a lot on you all at once. I don’t blame you for reacting the way you did.”

This guy… this fucking guy. I look down at our clasped hands, the second time today we’ve held hands, and lean tentatively towards him. He’s overheated and sweaty and smells kind of rank, but when Marco leans against me, I press closer to him. I couldn’t be the support he needed earlier today, but I can now.

“So… you’re an addict.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re in a program?”

“Yes. I’m managing things pretty well right now.” He sounds proud of himself, and why the hell shouldn’t he? He took this awful, destructive force in his life and fought it into submission. He’s brave and strong and powerful, and I wonder if he even realizes it. “Erwin’s been really helpful for figuring things out. He taught me a lot of things that help me manage my urges.”

“So, you and Erwin… you’re not…”

“Not what?”

Goddammit, he’s going to make me say it. “You’re not together?”

Marco’s burst of laughter is so loud and rolling that it makes me jump, and both Reiner and Bertolt look up to see what’s going on. “God, _no_! Erwin’s like my _dad_ , Jean! Trust me, there’s _nothing_ there!”

“Oh.” Now that he’s said it, I feel stupid for getting so worked up about it.

“No,” Marco continues, giving my hand a squeeze and pointedly ignoring the way Reiner is looking at us and grinning, “I love Erwin, but like a father. And not in that ‘oh daddy, please’ kind of way, in the strictly paternal kind of way.”

I snicker a little, and that makes Marco’s grin widen. “Glad to have that cleared up.”

“I thought you might be.” Marco shifts his weight, his shoulder lifting off mine, and I think he’s going to get up. Instead, he rests his head against me, mumbling an apology for being sweaty and gross, and he is, but he’s got his head on my shoulder again and all I can think about is how _right_ this feels.

“So… about us…” It feels shitty to break the nice little spell we’ve got going here, but I’ve got to ask.

He sighs, but it sounds more thoughtful than anything else. “Can we take it slow? Like, really slow? Middle school kids slow?”

“Leave room for Jesus when you dance slow?” 

He laughs at that. If nothing else, I can make him laugh. “Yeah, that slow. I need to know I can… adjust… before things get serious or we go faster.”

I swallow. I could just leave it where it is, this is a fine place to leave it, but never let it be said that when an opportunity to make an ass of myself presents itself, I don’t take it. “I’m already feeling pretty serious about you, Marco.”

He’s quiet for a few moments, just running his thumb over my knuckles. Reiner and Bertolt untangle themselves from each other and slip out, leaving the two of us alone. There it is, Marco: all my cards are on the table. It wouldn’t be honest to do it any other way.

“Yeah,” he says finally, his voice contemplative. “I’m feeling pretty serious about you too. But I need to know that’s coming from _me_ , and not from my addiction. And that I can _be_ serious about you without destroying all the work I’ve done the last three years.”

I nod; in a strange way, that makes sense. “I can wait. While you figure that out, I mean.”

“Thank you, Jean,” and even though I can’t see his face, I can hear him smile. He keeps his head on my shoulder, and I let mine relax, resting against his. The studio is near silent, only the sound of our breathing and the faint beating of Marco’s heart. Or maybe it’s mine, trying so hard to beat out of my chest with pure elation and excitement. Or maybe it’s both of ours, beating together loudly enough to make it sound like one beat.

“Parvati slept on my face last night,” I tell him after awhile, and that makes him laugh.

“She did? Did she try and steal your pillow?”

“ _Yes_. And then when Reiner came over, she played with him and ignored me!”

“Cats are funny like that, they’ll mess with you whenever they can…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it... forgiveness and resolution, of sorts.
> 
> Next week, things will be a little different. We're going to get to hear from some of the minor characters in Namaste and see what they're up to, while Jean and Marco are busy leaving room for Jesus.


	21. THIS BRIEF INTERLUDE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What everyone else is doing.

“So what’s good here?”

“Pretty much everything.” Sasha draws her brows downward as she studies the menu, carefully sounding out the words in her head. She could easily read the English translation, but where’s the fun in that? Besides, puzzling out the Korean alphabet reminds her of her childhood, and the old Korean woman who used to take care of her while her father was working. “Get whatever you want, I know how to cook it all.”

“Okay.” Connie leans low over the menu, examining it with more concentration than he’s usually capable of, and Sasha smiles behind her own menu. Connie’s not the sharpest crayon in the box, but he’s sweet and funny and cute as hell in his own short, solid way, and she likes that about him. He’s a lot better than the last few guys she’s dated; he _listens_ , for one thing, and it’s surprising how much he notices and files away.

Connie puts the menu down decisively. “I’ve decided.”

“Yes? What do you want?”

“All of it.” He nods, his lips pursed and expression serious. “I want one of everything.”

Sasha giggles and turns the page. “We’re going to be here for awhile, then.”

“I can do it. I can eat every last thing.” He puffs his chest out and lifts one arm, flexing it next to his head. “I’m _a man_.”

“Okay, manly man.” Sasha closes her menu and waves the waitress over, ordering in careful but technically proficient Korean, much to the woman’s delight. She starts burbling to Sasha, excited over this Western woman who speaks her language, and asks about her age, her job, how many children Sasha has, why she has no children, and if her boyfriend is going to give her any babies before she retreats to the kitchen.

Connie looks impressed. “Where’d you learn to speak like that?”

Sasha shrugs, a little embarrassed by the waitress’ enthusiasm. “The lady who used to take care of me was Korean. She taught me the basics, and I picked up the rest on my own.”

“Wow.” Connie picks up a pair of chopsticks and starts toying with them. “I barely scraped through Spanish in high school. I could order a beer or something. Probably.”

“What more do you need?” Sasha teases, and Connie grins at her.

~*~

Sasha turns out to be a masterful Korean barbecue master, and Connie sits back and lets her work, following her instructions with painstaking care when she shows him how to make the little lettuce and meat rolls. He fumbles with the chopsticks, having never learned how to use them, and Sasha shows him, holding her hands up so he can watch, and helping him tuck the first chopstick in next to his thumb.

They stuff themselves with pork and kimchi and tiny, delicious brine shrimp, and when Connie finally puts down his napkin and calls it over, his stomach is bulging. “You have a new title now.”

“Queen of Everything?” Sasha suggest, dropping a wink at him.

 _Queen of my heart._ “Queen of the Grill.”

“Pffft.” She blows her long bangs out of her eyes. “I already had that title.”

“Do you want another one?”

“Queen of All She Surveys sounds nice.”

“Ooooh, I like it. That has a real ring to it.” Connie tries to stand up, and nearly topples over, his balance destroyed by his full belly. “Damn, I think we should have some dessert.”

Sasha leans across the table and pokes him in the stomach, and Connie tries to ignore how much her touch thrills him. “Do you have _room_ for dessert?”

“There’s _always_ room for dessert,” Connie declares, even as his stomach groans at the thought, and he snatches the dessert menu from the head of the table.

“A man after my own heart,” Sasha sighs, her eyelids fluttering in mock adoration, and Connie grins at her before looking down at the menu. It’s fortunately printed in both English and Korean, so he doesn’t need to puzzle over pictures to figure out what he’s ordering. On the other hand, it turns out the Koreans aren’t so great at desserts, and Connie doesn’t see anything that catches his eye.

He flips to the back in desperation, wanting to stretch this time out for as long as he can—he’ll see her at work tomorrow, he knows, but it’s different here, this is _a date_ —and finally sees something that’ll work. Grinning, he shows Sasha the menu. “Have you ever had bubble tea?”

She cranes her neck to get a better look. “No, what’s that?”

“It’s a tea drink with…” Connie pauses, a horrible, wonderful idea occurring to him, and he runs with it without any further thought. “Shark eggs in it.”

Sasha’s eyebrows shoot up and disappear into her bangs, and she tilts her head to the side, examining him with piercing eyes. “ _Shark_ eggs?”

“Have you ever wanted to eat an alpha predator, Sasha?” Connie asks, carefully composing his face into a mask of absolute seriousness. 

She narrows her eyes at him, and then breaks out into a bright, sunny grin. “I’ve already eaten bear and wild boar. Time to show the ocean’s alpha predators who’s boss!”

~*~

Sasha knows damn well that sharks don’t lay eggs, and that bubble tea has tapioca in it. But it’s so cute, the way Connie tries to impress her, that she’s willing to play along.

~*~*~*~

“Honey, I’m home!” It’s a cliched saying, Petra knows, but she likes it all the same. It has a certain cheerful ring to it, and as long as she doesn’t drag the words out too much, it doesn’t become cartoonish. She slips off her loafers—flat-heeled, sensible, the kind of shoes yoga instructors can look at and not launch into a lecture about Achilles tendons and tight hamstrings—and pads into the living room.

“Hi, sweetie.” Olou is laying on the couch, his long legs propped up along the couch’s back, the room filled with the acrid stink of Ben-gay and tiger balm.

“Rough practice?” Petra asks sympathetically, sitting down beside him and coaxing his legs into her lap. He doesn’t try to resist particularly hard, lowering his legs onto her with a sigh, then groaning softly as she starts working her fingers over the rock-hard muscles of his calves.

“Long day,” he allows, then groans again. “Oh god, right there! Right there!”

Petra obligingly digs down, massaging into his leg, and feels a burst of pride when she feels the muscle give way under her fingers, releasing its tension and becoming loose, relaxed. Olou doesn’t say much as she works on him, beyond the occasional suggestion or direction, and Petra concentrates on what she’s doing. It’s only after Olou’s legs are limp and pliant in her lap that she looks up and smiles brightly at him. “You missed bowling.”

“I know.” Olou lifts his arm off his face and peers up at her, his mouth slowly quirking into a grin. “Did you win?”

“Gunther and I kicked Eld’s ass!” Petra has been bursting to tell him this, and she bounces on her seat now that it’s finally out. “We _destroyed_ him!”

“You did?” Olou pull his legs off her so he can sit up, smiling fiercely. “The _one night_ I have to skip!”

“I know!” Petra’s bouncing must be contagious, because Olou snatches both her hands and bounces on the couch with her. “Marco got it on his phone. You should’ve _seen_ the look on Eld’s face…”

“Did Marco bring his new boyfriend?” Now that the important information has been revealed, Olou gets right down to gossiping. “Did I miss meeting him too?”

“He’s not Marco’s _boyfriend_ , I don’t think,” Petra tells him, running her hand up and down his shin without realizing it, deep in thought. “They don’t kiss each other or anything like that. They’re… they’re kind of like those kids in high school who hang out all the time but deny they’re in a relationship, until one day they decide they’re dating and everyone responds with ‘What, you weren’t already?’”

Olou snickers behind his hand. “Amazing. So he’s basically Marco’s boyfriend and hasn’t realized it yet?”

“Oh, Jean _wants_ to be Marco’s boyfriend! You should see the way he looks at him!” Petra leans forward and cups the side of Olou’s face, brushing the pad of her thumb over his cheekbone. “Kind of reminds me of how you look at me.”

Olou’s face softens into a smile, a sweet, tender smile that Petra knows is entirely for her. “Well, I hope they manage to be as happy as we are, someday.”

“Me, too.” Petra leans in to steal a quick kiss, then pushes Olou’s legs off her lap. “Now excuse me, I’ve got to go use the bathroom.”

“Such a lady I married,” Olou teases as she gets up and starts walking away.

“Mind your manners, sir, so I’ll put The Sugarplum Fairy on the stereo when I get back.”

“You _wouldn’t_!”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Olou’s pained laughter follows Petra to the bathroom, and she’s smiling as she sits on the toilet. She’s lucky, she knows, to have found Olou and made a life with him, and really, they’re incredibly happy. Very happy, and it’s not hard to convince herself that there isn’t something missing.

Petra’s gaze falls, as she knew it would, on the cup of pregnancy tests they keep near the towel rack. It should be easy, she thinks ruefully, as she takes one out and gets it ready. People have been doing it for thousands—millions!—of years, so it shouldn’t be this hard. They shouldn’t have to try this hard for something they both want, for something they’d both be good at.

Petra puts the test aside once she’s done with it, and finishes her business. She doesn’t let herself look at the test while she’s washing her hands and running a comb through her hair, refusing to watch it not change. She’s been down this road before, she isn’t going to let the heartbreak catch her again.

When she knows two minutes is up, Petra looks down at the plastic test, expecting nothing. She so expects to see what she’s seen so many times before that for a moment, her eyes lie to her. Then she blinks, and sees that this one is different, this one is the one she wants, and she nearly drops to her knees.

“Olou?” she calls, her voice high and tight with barely realized joy. “Olou, can you come in here for a minute?”

~*~*~*~

Erwin closes his eyes and leans back in his chair, dropping the pen onto his desk and hoping it doesn’t roll away. He’s filled a legal pad today with his jargon, a code carefully devised to be both readable and translatable, something that can be easily done by a man with one hand, and his assistant will have her hands full tomorrow transcribing all of it. The rest of the firm types, but a usable one-handed keyboard is yet to be invented, and until then, Nifa will have plenty to do.

It’s late. The rest of the city went to sleep a long time ago, and Erwin knows he should crawl off to bed for a few hours too, before he has to rise and go back to the firm, back to fighting the good fight, his penance for his years of fighting for the wrong team, of battling for the wrong colors. Most of the time, Erwin can convince himself that it’s worth it, that he’s making up for everything he did wrong in another, earlier life, when he had still had ideals, when he had still had a second arm.

When the hunger inside him hadn’t been so strong.

Erwin opens his eyes, squinting them against the glare coming in from his windows. His apartment is high above the city, high enough that he feels safe, most of the time, up above it all where he can watch the goings-on of the city moving beneath him. Mike says it’s arrogance, but Erwin knows better. No one can sneak up on him when he’s higher than everyone else.

Erwin sighs and pushes back from his desk. There’s no point in trying to work any longer, not when the hunger is this strong. He hasn’t had a night like this in ages, and while tomorrow he might be grateful, remembering what the agony is like keeping him humble, now everything is too bright, too aggressive, too _there_. He needs to talk to someone.

But who? He can’t call Mike, who would have gone to sleep hours ago, nestled in with his family and snoozing away to get ready for another day at the vet’s office. He’d like to call Marco—Marco would understand what he’s going through, would understand the hunger and how it claws at Erwin’s veins—but he doesn’t want to burden him with this. Marco has been doing well lately, has been slowly exploring his own limits and expanding back to things he’d done before his disease, and while Erwin is overjoyed at his progress, it means he can’t call Marco in his hour of need.

That only leaves one person.

Erwin finds his phone on his cluttered desk and flips it open. He carefully punches in a number, long committed to memory, and holds the battered old phone to his ear while it rings and he concentrates on his breathing. Pick up, pick up, pick up…

“… hello?” A scratchy, sleep-filled voice answers on the other end, and Erwin feels his shoulders sag forward in relief.

“Hello, Nile.”

“Erwin?” Rustling fills Erwin’s ear, along with some mumbling and a soft, plaintive question, and then he hears the sound of Nile’s feet, padding on the hardwood floor he has in his home. “Erwin, is everything okay?”

“It’s been a long day.” Erwin doesn’t elaborate further than that, trusting that Nile will catch his hidden meaning. 

“Sorry to hear that.” Nile sighs, and Erwin hears the sound of him collapsing onto his couch, the springs squeaking underneath his weight. “Dammit!”

“Nile?”

“Sorry. Sat on a Lego.” More rustling, a grunt as Nile locates the errant Lego, and then a tiny clatter as he sets it on the table. “At least I didn’t step on it.”

“It’s important to focus on the silver linings.”

“Says a man who’s never sat on one of these damn things. I’m bringing one with me next time I’m in Trost and hiding it in your couch.”

Erwin laughs at that, both because it’s ridiculous and it’s absolutely something Nile would do, and the tension in his chest eases a little. “Tell me about your children, Nile. What are they doing these days?”

“What _aren’t_ they doing?” Nile complains, but he obligingly launches into stories about his three children and what they’re doing, and Erwin listens, imagining the life he might have had, had things gone differently. It’s a pleasant daydream, but he knows he never would have been able to create the kind of life Nile has, the kind his brother Mike has. He can only give his heart to concepts, to things greater than himself, to battles that need to be fought. He can’t give it to another person, not while the world is the way it is. It’s still a relief to hear about others’ mundane, ordinary lives, though, and it reminds Erwin of what he fights for. It gives him strength to _keep_ fighting, to silence the roaring in his veins and the want in his soul. He’s needed. He needs to keep going, so that Nile and Mike’s children can have good, safe lives.

“… and _then_ we find out that it had been deliberate all along!” Nile groans and Erwin can imagine his oldest friend, his head leaning back on the couch and his legs sprawled out in front of him, the room around him dark and lit only by the nightlight that the Dok family keeps in every room of the house. “But anyway, that’s what the rugrats have been up to.” Erwin knows that while he might complain about their antics, Nile loves his children deeply and unconditionally, and would do anything for them. He even took a work promotion that he didn’t really want so that he could keep himself, and by proxy, them, safer. “They’ve been asking about you.”

“They have?” Erwin has seen the children many, many times, but he’s always surprised that they remember him.

“Yes. They keep asking to go see Uncle Ernie and his pool.” Erwin can hear the smile in Nile’s voice.

“You know that you, Marie, and the kids are welcome here whenever you want to visit,” Erwin tells him.

“Hmmmm…” Nile hums under his breath, and Erwin can picture him stroking at the wispy little beard he was so proud of as a teenager, and which never filled in past the wispy teenager stage. Nile probably keeps it now purely out of spite. “Well, the next big holiday is Thanksgiving, and we told Marie’s parents we’d come and spend it with them. Then there’s Christmas, and we’ll already be in Trost for _my_ family, so… maybe New Year’s?”

Erwin hadn’t been serious, but now that Nile suggests it, the idea catches fire in his mind. He knows that his own Christmas will be spent at his mother’s house, with Mike and his ever-expanding brood, and it’s something he’s looking forward to, but he doesn’t have any plans for New Year’s. New Year’s is a dangerous holiday for him, one fraught with expectations regarding alcohol and indulgences, and he had been intending to ask Marco if he’d like to have a quiet evening in with him. But now Marco is courting the Kirschtein boy, who seems to be making a genuine effort at understanding Marco’s issues, and Erwin imagines that they’ll spend New Year’s together. Or maybe… maybe he could invite Marco and Jean to join himself and Nile at Mike’s home for the holiday. That would be pleasant, he thinks, having everyone all together, and he could offer to pay for a cleaning service once it was all over if Mike balks at the idea. That would be nice, noisy and tumultuous and distracting, but also _controlled_ , somewhere safe, and Mike has that little office set up in a corner of the house where Erwin can always go and hide if things get too difficult…

“Erwin? You still there?”

Nile’s voice breaks through his revery, and Erwin blinks, coming back to the present. “Yes, I’m still here. Just woolgathering.”

“I thought you’d fallen asleep.”

“No, I was just… planning.”

Nile laughs, and Erwin smiles; Nile knows him too well, and knows that he won’t have to do anything else regarding planning or convincing Mike, not now that Erwin is on the case. “So you want to talk to Mike about it?”

“Yes, I can do that. I think… I think now I can get some sleep.” The hunger is quiet now, sleeping in his chest again, and Erwin is suddenly aware of how very, very tired he is.

“Good. You get some rest, and then keep letting all those criminals my guys catch go free, you bastard.”

“You know how broken the laws are, Nile…”

“I know, I know. I’m working on it, but it’s slow going.”

“I know you are. I’ll help you however I can.”

“I know you will. Goodnight, Erwin.”

“Goodnight, Nile.” Erwin carefully closes his phone and leaves it on the table, rising and wincing at the creaking sound in his knees. He walks to the bathroom, knowing that he has just enough energy to brush his teeth before collapsing into bed and sleeping hard until his alarm shrills him awake in four hours.

~*~*~*~

“The troops are all in bed?”

“Everyone present and accounted for.” Mike stands in the entranceway to the living room and stretches, his long arms lifting above his head and nearly brushing the ceiling, the bottom of his shirt pulling up and showing a few inches of fuzzy belly. He’s expanded in the midsection over the last few years, his waistline no longer quite as tapered and as markedly different from his shoulders, but Nanaba doesn’t mind. She doesn’t look the same way she did when they first met either, not after two pregnancies and delivering three children, and she likes to think that Mike’s middle-aged spread has been done in solidarity for her own. She’s still slight and fragile-looking, she knows, just not quite as tiny as she’d once been. It’s okay; the extra weight and wrinkles and gray hairs are just signs of a life well-lived, and she’d have it no other way.

“Do we have anything going on tomorrow?”

Mike shakes his head, his bangs—always too long, she’s going to need to trim those for him tomorrow—getting in his eyes. “Just the usual Wednesday stuff.”

“All right. I’ll pick up some pizzas on the way home from work then.” Wednesday means soccer practice, art classes, and Model UN, so some very hungry teenagers all descending on the house at one time. “Is Reiner coming over?”

“I doubt it.” Mike drifts towards the kitchen, and Nanaba hears the sound of the refrigerator opening and closing. “He’s been talking a lot about his new friend… uh, John?… and spending time with him.”

“Jean,” Nanaba corrects gently, and Mike nods as he comes back into the living room, holding a glass of wine and a bottle of beer. He hands her the wine and then settles next to her on the couch.

“Yeah, Jean. Marco’s new friend.”

Nanaba smiles into her wine glass; she’s heard the gossip too, from Annie, and knows that Marco and Jean are more than just friends. Clearly Mike hasn’t smelled them since they started dating, and hasn’t figured that out yet. She hasn’t met Jean herself, but Annie and Reiner’s Facebook pages have been very informative, as has Marco’s.

“Do you think we should invite the two of them to New Year’s?”

Mike groans and goes limp on the couch, his long, heavily muscled body splaying out across it. Sebastian, Nanaba’s ancient, semi-decrepit cat, stirs on her lap and gives Mike a furious glaring, letting his opinion on being disturbed during his nap very, _very_ clear. Nanaba smoothes her hand down his back, and Sebastian relaxes again, although he continues to glare at Mike. “I still can’t believe Erwin decided to invite everyone here.”

“He means well.” Nanaba wiggles one of her feet under Mike’s thigh, and he shifts so she can get comfortable. “Marie said he called Nile in the middle of the night.”

“He did?” Mike lifts an eyebrow at her. “He didn’t call here?”

“You know how Erwin is.” Nanaba shrugs one shoulder and sips her wine, her fingers still smoothing Sebastian’s fur. “He doesn’t want to burden family.”

“Like Nile isn’t family at this point.”

“He’s not blood. Erwin sees that as a difference.”

“For a really smart guy, Erwin’s pretty dumb sometimes.”

“Spoken like a true little brother.” Nanaba stretches her hand across the couch, leaving Sebastian grumbling on her lap, and brushes Mike’s bangs out of his face. “I need to cut these tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Mike closes his eyes and lets her play with his hair. “We probably should. Marco is basically Erwin’s son at this point.”

Nanaba nods in agreement. “And really, Nile and Marie and the kids can stay with Erwin. All the young people can drive themselves home after midnight, or we can double up on bedrooms.”

“That’s true.” Everyone at the party will be a potential designated driver, after all. Neither of them is saying it, but they both know it’s true. Mike sighs again, and Nanaba knows that New Year’s is going to happen. “You’ll have to remind me not to buy any beer after Christmas.”

“I’m sure we can drink all the alcohol in the house between now and then.” Neither of them drinks very heavily, and they don’t keep hard liquor in the house.

Mike sighs again, before heaving himself to the side and landing on her shoulder. Sebastian hisses and swats at him, but for all his bulk and size, Mike is gentle as he comes to rest against her, his warmth spreading across her like a blanket. He turns his head toward the side of her neck and inhales, the tip of his nose pressing against her throat. 

“You smell nice.”

“Thank you.” It’s a compliment she’s heard many times of the course of their marriage, but it never fails to make heat bloom in her chest. From anyone else, it would be light, inconsequential, but from her husband, it means the world. Nanaba works her arm behind his head, Mike shifting to give her space, and runs her fingers through his hair. “Would you like to smell anything else?”

Mike considers for a moment, his eyes closed as she plays with his hair, then shakes his head. “Early day tomorrow. Lots of spays and neuters lined up.”

“All right.” She’s not offended; she knows it’s not a slight against her.

Mike moves around a little, simultaneously getting comfortable and annoying Sebastian, before he fishes the remote control out from between the cushions. “Do you want to watch _Orange Is the New Black_ or _House of Cards_?”

“You have the long day tomorrow,” Nanaba tells him.

“Okay.” Mike scrolls through the options until he finds what he wants, and kisses the side of her neck as the theme song for _Orange Is the New Black_ starts up. “Love you, Nanabanana.”

“Love you too, Mike bear.”

~*~*~*~

With one final snap of his hips forward, Bertolt tips over the edge. He shudders, his head falling forward until his bangs brush against Reiner’s shoulder, and it feels like it’s taking all his remaining brain power to keep his arms locked in position and not tumble forward and squash Reiner underneath him. He wouldn’t hurt Reiner, he knows, but he’s gotten pretty sweaty, and no matter how many times Reiner insists that he doesn’t mind, Bertolt can’t help but believe that Reiner finds his sweat off-putting and it’s only a matter of time before it becomes a deal-breaker.

He thinks he’s done, or at least close to, but then Reiner tightens his legs around his waist, bracketing Bertolt with his powerful, muscular legs, and pulls him closer. The movement makes everything shift internally, and Bertolt finds he has another weak little spasm left in him, another spurt of come going deep into Reiner. Reiner sighs happily underneath him and stretches up, mouthing along Bertolt’s neck and trying to slowly pull him down with both arms.

“A minute. I need… a minute.” As soon as the words leave Bertolt’s mouth, Reiner relaxes his grip, and waits patiently as Bertolt rides out the last of his orgasm. When he’s sure he’s done, Bertolt pulls out, wincing a little as cool air strikes his cock, and lowers himself onto the bed beside Reiner.

Reiner immediately rolls over, the way Bertolt knew he would, and presses up against him, tucking his head under Bertolt’s chin and wrapping both arms around him. Bertolt waits a split second, making sure Reiner isn’t going to change his mind, before snaking his arms around Reiner’s waist, and he even has enough bravery today to nudge one of his legs against Reiner’s, prompting Reiner to throw his leg over Bertolt’s hip. Reiner takes the cue and obliges him, holding Bertolt with both arms and one leg, and it’s only then that Bertolt lets himself relax.

They hold each other for a few minutes, letting themselves calm down, and Bertolt feels Reiner’s heartbeat thunder against his chest and then slow, becoming the soft, soothing thud that he loves to fall asleep listening to. Reiner shifts against him and moves his head out from under Bertolt’s chin, stretching up to kiss the underside of his jaw.

“You can stay inside me after you come, if you want. You don’t have to pull out right away.”

Bertolt turns his face into the pillow, embarrassed. Reiner’s pillow talk can leave something to be desired, sometimes. “It’s not… I’m not hurting you?”

“Nah, it doesn’t hurt.” Reiner ignores how Bertolt has most of his face in the pillow, and peppers light kisses up and down his jawline. “Feels good.”

“It does?” This is a revelation, and Bertolt picks his head up, focusing on Reiner’s face. Reiner isn’t a good liar, and he looks open and earnest now, not shifty at all. “I’m not too big?”

Reiner laughs at that, and Bertolt has to fight the urge to hide his face in the pillow again. It’s a good laugh, though, the kind that means Reiner isn’t laughing _at_ him but because he cares about him, and Bertolt is proud at how easily he’s able to recognize that now. “Babe, have I _ever_ complained about you being too big?”

Bertolt looks down, focusing on Reiner’s collarbone, but he can feel a tiny smile creep onto his face. “No.”

“Damn straight I haven’t. Because I love your huge goddamn cock.” Reiner ducks his head down and meets Bertolt’s eyes for just a second before stealing a kiss. “I love _you_.”

Bertolt is glad they’re kissing, because then he doesn’t have to respond. Those words come so easy to Reiner; he can give that part of himself so freely. They’re hard for Bertolt, words that need to fight and claw their way out of his throat, words that give him a palpable sense of doom in the pit of his stomach, like he’s damned whoever he directs them towards. Reiner doesn’t understand that. Bertolt knows he doesn’t, but he can’t force the words out when they won’t come. He tries to _show_ Reiner how much he loves him, with cupcakes and curries and doing the laundry—something Reiner is notoriously terrible at—and hopes it’s enough. He hopes Reiner will stay long enough for him to find the words.

Reiner tucks up under Bertolt’s chin again after they’re done kissing, and his bristly hair scrapes along the underside of Bertolt’s jaw. “How’s Marco doing?”

“He’s fine.” Bertolt knows Reiner is asking because he cares, but he’s instantly on guard. It’s stupid, he knows it’s stupid, but he doesn’t have enough friends that he can’t guard the ones he has, and he’s always suspicious about anyone stealing them away. Even Reiner. _Especially_ Reiner, who is so beautiful and golden and confident and everything Bertolt is not. “He’s been spending a lot of time with Jean.”

“Tell me about it.” Reiner lets go of Bertolt and stretches out on his back, tucking one arm behind his head and trying to pull Bertolt up against his side. Bertolt frowns, worried about making a mess in the sheets, but then lets himself be pulled into position, his head on Reiner’s chest. This is how he usually ends up falling asleep, and hearing the steady _lub lub_ of Reiner’s heartbeat immediately soothes him. “He’s all Jean will talk about these days.”

“Marco… talks a lot about Jean too.” Not too much; Marco has the good sense to realize when he’s been going on, but it’s pretty clear how he feels about Jean. He gets all starry-eyed when he talks about him, and it makes Bertolt wonder if that’s what Reiner looks like when he talks about Bertolt.

Reiner glances down, the motion giving him about eight chins from Bertolt’s angle, and Bertolt smiles up at him. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

Bertolt doesn’t answer. Reiner knows damn well that he is, and he’s not going to dignify that with a response.

“Bertolt. Bertl. Bert baby.” Bertolt knows what’s coming, and he buries his head in Reiner’s shoulder, which only encourages him. “Bertbombastic. Bertalicious. Talk Berty to me. I’m going to Ber _tell_ you what someone once Ber _told_ me…”

“Stop!” Bertolt held out as long as he could, but now he snags the pillow out from behind him—thank you, Marco, for those yoga classes and flexible shoulders—and pummels Reiner with it. “Those’re getting _worse_!”

“Better!” Reiner roars with laughter, taking his pillow beating like a man. “They’re getting better!”

“Worse.” Bertolt drops the pillow on Reiner’s stomach and snuggles back down into his shoulder. “ _So_ much worse.”

“Difference of opinion.” Reiner curls his arm around Bertolt’s shoulders, holding him close, and Bertolt melts down on top of him. They’re both sticky with sweat and come and don’t smell very nice, but there’s nowhere else Bertolt would rather be, especially when Reiner cups his hand over the back of his neck and runs his fingertips into the short, silky hair back there.

“Bertolt,” Reiner says after a few moments, and his voice is serious again, “you know that you’re Marco’s best friend, right?”

Bertolt scrunches his nose. “Do we have to talk about this?”

“No.” Reiner sighs, and he moves his hand, no longer stroking now but actively, protectively cupping the back of Bertolt’s neck. Bertolt has never figured out why, but he loves it when Reiner does that; it makes him feel safe and secure in ways he can’t describe, and Reiner can talk him into anything as long as he keeps doing that. “But I’m sure you don’t have anything to worry about. Marco’s going to keep wanting to spend time with you, especially on football days when _I’m_ going to monopolize Jean’s attention.”

“Marco’s too good for him,” Bertolt mutters into Reiner’s shoulder, ashamed of his petty feelings but unable to deny them.

“Don’t you think that should be Marco’s decision and not yours?”

“He made Marco cry.”

“Marco made _him_ cry too, and then they worked it out.”

“Marco could do better.”

“So could you, and yet you chose to make me the happiest guy in the world.”

“That’s not true,” Bertolt grumbles, even as he feels his face heat up with pure, unbridled pleasure.

“It’s totally true,” Reiner says cheerfully, and kisses the top of Bertolt’s head. “Do you want to take the first shower or should I?”

Bertolt tightens his arm across Reiner’s chest. “Can we take one together? In five minutes?”

“Of course.” Reiner sighs, making Bertolt’s head rise and fall with his chest, and kisses Bertolt’s head again. “Will you marry me, Bertolt?”

Bertolt hides his face again and makes an indistinct sound. Reiner asks him that every day, usually at the end of the day when they’re in bed together, and Bertolt likes to imagine that, someday, he’ll be able to give Reiner an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could, realistically, call this chapter "The Straights, Erwin, and Reiner and Bertolt." Oh look, straight people exist in Namaste! Anyway, it was fun to experiment with some new voices, with varying levels of success, and I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Next week, I'll be traveling again, so there won't be a new chapter. I might manage another sneaky Friday chapter, but no promises. The next chapter _will_ get back to Jean and Marco, though, after the time lag that's implied in this chapter.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to Marco and Jean.

“I’m going crazy,” I announce, collapsing onto the couch beside Reiner. “Like, _seriously_ , seriously crazy.”

“What’s making you crazy?” he asks, and I narrow my eyes at the indulgent tone in his voice. I don’t appreciate being condescended to, and it’s still hard for me to believe that Reiner is being genuine all the time. He’s just too damn _kind_ , too considerate, and he listens like he’s much, much older than he actually is.

“Everything!” I throw my hands up in the air, gesturing ineffectively at the ceiling. “We’re working on this huge project at work, and it’s for shit that won’t even be released for six months, and I spend every damn day staring at a computer screen full of pictures of people having fun in the summer, and it’s _November_. And our client is _such_ a pain in the ass, they can’t make up their damn minds about which shade of blue they want, and it’s _fucking blue_ , who cares, no one’s going to notice! And my uncle is riding my ass, except he’s not, not the way he usually does, and he always looks so damn disappointed when I can’t get the designs exactly the way he wants, and it _sucks_!” Parvati, hearing the ruckus, hops up on the couch and rubs herself on my leg, and I snatch her up and thrust her at Reiner. “And my cat is getting fat! Is my cat getting fat?”

Reiner takes Parvati from me in a hurry, before she can get upset and start to squirm. He settles her onto his lap, where she starts kneading her paws and giving me a dirty look. It’s like she knows I called her fat. “Parvati’s at exactly the weight she should be,” he explains to me, using his quiet, talking-to-the-wild-beasts voice. “If she were any lighter, she’d be too little.”

“Good.” I reach over to stroke Parvati’s head in apology, and she swats at my hand before turning around in Reiner’s lap and laying down with her back facing me. I can tell when I’ve been snubbed, and leave her alone. “So at least I’m not sucking at taking care of my cat. Just at everything else.”

“Jean.” Reiner shifts Parvati off his lap and onto the couch, so he can turn around and face me. “Bro… you really, _really_ need to get laid.”

“I know!” I groan and sink lower into the couch, avoiding his gaze. “Believe me, I’m _trying_!”

Reiner chuckles quietly, and I feel soft cat feet on my leg. Glancing over, I see that Parvati has climbed over his lap and is trying to get into mine now, my previous indiscretions about her weight apparently forgiven. She mews, her brows furrowing down over her eye, and headbutts me in the chin. “At least you and the cat have bonded.”

“Yeah.” I run my hand down Parvati’s back, and she settles onto my chest, purring like a tiny outboard motor and tucking her feet in underneath herself. “At least I’m doing _something_ right.”

Reiner sighs and leans forward, digging through the box he brought with him and left on the coffee table. He emerges with a cupcake in one hand, which he offers to me and I take. Like I’m going to let my drama distract me from a Bertolt cupcake, especially one that’s been iced with the red, blue, and white of the French flag on top. Seems like at least one person at that house has finally seen reason and started supporting a proper football team. “So which part of all that do you want to unpack first?”

I bite into my cupcake, more to distract myself than anything else. It’s also stupidly delicious, like everything Bertolt makes, creamy and goopy in the middle, and I give myself a moment to appreciate the artistry of it. “Which part of what?”

“The stuff with your job, your uncle, your cat, and Marco.” Reiner lists them all off as he grabs a cupcake for himself, frowning at the French flag on top. “The stuff with the cat is easy: you’re doing a great job, Parvati looks perfectly healthy and happy with you, I can’t smell her litter box so you must be cleaning it a lot, keep up the good work.”

“Thank you.” Reiner’s praise means a lot to me, especially on this issue, and it makes the simmering inferno inside me die down a little. It doesn’t go away—it never goes away—but it’s quieter, and I can think. “It’s been… a long month.”

“I can imagine.” Reiner bites into his cupcake and suddenly snorts, covering his mouth with his hand. “How are things going with you and Marco?”

“Good, I think?” The frustrating thing is that I’m not sure. “We hang out all the time. He comes over here and plays the piano a lot, and I go over there sometimes and walk him through old Zelda games.”

Reiner nods, stuffing more of his cupcake in his mouth. “The old Zelda games are the best ones.”

“Absolutely.” Too bad that isn’t the subject in question, because just the other day I helped Marco with the Spirit Temple, which is the best one and one that I could talk about for ages. “But I’ve just… I’ve never been interested in someone like him before. I don’t… I don’t know if I’m doing it right.”

“You’re doing it right.”

“Huh?” Not the answer I expected, especially not that fast. “I am?”

“Sure you are.” Reiner lounges on the couch, stretching his legs out in front of him, brushing cupcake crumbs off his chest. “You two are making each other happy, right?”

“I… I think so.”

Reiner pins me down with a side-eye. “Jean. Does spending time with him make you happy or not?”

I look down, suddenly extremely interested in Parvati’s ears. “Yes.”

“Okay. And he keeps coming back, so I can assume it makes him happy too.” Reiner holds up one finger. “That’s evidence number one. Number two is that he’s all you can talk about.”

“I can talk about other stuff!”

Reiner grins, so cocky and sure of himself that I kind of want to slap him, and settle for elbowing him in the ribs, which he barely notices. “Yeah, but it almost inevitably comes back to talking about Marco.” Before I can protest further—not that he’s wrong, because he’s not—Reiner holds up third finger. “Third, Bertolt tells me that all Marco talks about right now is _you_.”

“What, really?” This is good gossip, and I forget about my face-slapping ways and turn towards him, suddenly all ears. “He does?”

“According to Bert, he does, and Bertolt was never any good at lying, so he’s probably telling the truth. And fourth, my uncle hasn’t called me once yet this week to grill me about you and what kind of person you are, so that means he’s probably laid off, and he only ever does that when he’s accepted the inevitable.”

“Why was Erwin calling you to ask about me?” My relationship and position with Erwin is still… rocky, to say the least. I’m pretty sure he and Bertolt haven’t forgiven me yet for upsetting Marco so badly at the end of last month, but at least Bertolt tries to make friendly overtures sometimes, like the box of cupcakes on the coffee table. Erwin has remained frosty as fuck, which Reiner says is just part of his personality, but it feels kind of personal. It probably _is_ personal, and I can’t say I blame him. I’m the one who could be leading Marco down a path back to addiction, after all, despite how I haven’t had a drink in three weeks and have been buying vegetables and keeping them in my fridge for when he comes over. Apparently, the clear, bottom drawer of the refrigerator is for vegetables, and has been all along. Who knew?

“Because he loves Marco.” The corner of my eye must twitch or something, because Reiner hurries to clarify. “ _Like a son_. He loves Marco like a son. I’m pretty sure Uncle Erwin isn’t interested in… the pleasures of the flesh, let’s say.”

“He’s asexual? I know someone like that.”

Reiner shrugs. “I never asked. My dad would probably know, but I’m not going to ask him. All I know is that Uncle Erwin has never had a girlfriend _or_ a boyfriend in all the time I’ve known him. The man is married to his work. Either way, he’s not interested in Marco like that, so stop with the weird sugar daddy paranoia.”

“I don’t…” Yeah, I totally do have weird sugar daddy paranoia, and I turn my attention back to my cupcake and take another aggressive bite. As I’m chewing, I get a closer look at the inside of the thing, and… dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit. I swallow what I’ve got in my mouth and yell “What the fuck!”

Reiner starts laughing, his body shaking so hard the entire couch vibrates. “I was waiting for you to see that!”

In the middle of my cupcake—my beautiful, French frosted cupcake—the gooey center is running out, and it’s black, red, and gold. Germany’s colors. God _dammit_.

~*~

A few hours later, after the football match is over and Reiner has left—leaving the remaining cupcakes behind as a consolation prize, all while chortling gleefully about his team’s victory—Marco shows up. He lets himself in, using the key I gave him last week. I gave him the key so he could come over and play the piano whenever he wanted, whether I was home or not; that’s what I told him, anyway. Really, it was a bribe on my part: I _want_ him over all the time, and if he can get in himself, maybe my place will start to feel more homey to him. That’s my theory, at least.

“Hi, Jean!” he calls cheerily, and Parvati jumps up from her spot on the couch and goes running over to see him, meowing busily and telling him all about her day. By the time I catch up, he’s got his shoes slipped off and Parvati in his arms, purring and looking content.

“Hi,” I say, and he opens his free arm for a hug. I sink in against him, wrapping my arm around his waist; he’s always been a hugger, ever since I met him, and I’m still getting used to it. My dad and uncle weren’t and aren’t huggers at all, and while Reiner’s hugs are enough like my mom’s that I’ve gotten used to them, Marco’s are different. There’s something so considerate, so tender and sweet about them, and I’m still trying to figure out how to hug him back properly. My first instinct is to drop my hand and grab his ass, but I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t go over well at all. So I lean against him instead, into his warmth and the lean stretch of his muscles, and hope he’ll do the thing he started doing a few days ago again.

I’m not disappointed; before he lets me go, Marco drops his head down and kisses me, high on my cheekbone, between my temple and my eye. It’s only the third time he’s done that, and it makes the entire side of my face feel like it’s lit up, like electricity is running just under my skin, and I’m almost afraid that I’m glowing. On impulse, as he starts to pull away, I stretch up and kiss the point of his chin, feeling the bristles of his five o’clock shadow rasp against my lips. His eyes widen, but then he smiles, and gives me another quick squeeze before letting me go.

“How was the match?” he asks, letting himself in the rest of the way and heading towards the kitchen. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I groan, trailing after him. “I saved you some traitor cupcakes, though.”

“Traitor cupcakes?”

“You’ll know when you try one.”

I can tell by the way that he’s holding his shoulders that he’s considering asking more, but then he shrugs, apparently deciding that it’ll be easier to just try one and see what I’m talking about it. He sets Parvati down on one of the barstools that surround the kitchen’s island—she’s having none of that and hops right up on the island to see what’s going on, a behavior I tried to break her of for about three days before giving up in despair—and moves to the refrigerator. I notice the shopping bag in his hand (made of sturdy, reusable canvas, naturally), and feel a prickling of guilt in my stomach. “You didn’t have to buy groceries.”

“I just got a few things,” he tells me cheerfully, and crouches in front of the fridge to unpack. 

A few things, in Marco-speak, could mean more groceries than I typically buy in a week, and I crouch next to him, watching as he takes things out of the bag. Mostly vegetables, it looks like, and I relax a little. He mostly shops at the fruit stands near his apartment, and everyone knows and loves him there, so he won’t have spent too much money. I frown at the box of tofu he tries to slip past me, and he grins apologetically.

“It’s good once it’s seasoned enough!”

Sure it is, Marco. Suuuuuure it is.

I stand up, and I’m pleased by how my knees don’t creak or pop at all. Six weeks of regular yoga have been good to me, and just the other day, I managed to get both hands behind me in reverse prayer hands for the first time, something Marco had praised enthusiastically. “What do you want for dinner tonight?” Judging by all the groceries, I just assume he’s staying for a few hours.

“I thought I’d show you how to make another type of curry?” He holds up the last thing in his bag, which is a plastic baggie full of some kind of bean. “I need to get these soaking, though.”

“That sounds good.” I never knew there were so many different types of curries before meeting Marco, and he’s made it his mission to cure me of my ignorance. I now have a drawer in my kitchen full of exotic, fragrant spices that he’s brought over, and I’ve gotten pretty good at chopping and dicing things to help him get them ready.

“Great!” Marco beams at me for a moment before standing and rummaging through my cabinets for a bowl, and I close the fridge and pet Parvati, trying to hide the way his smile lights me up from the inside out.

“Do you need me to do anything else to get it ready?” I ask, watching as he’s carefully measuring out the beans and pouring them into a mixing bowl.

“Nah, we've got a couple of hours before we need to do anything else.” Marco covers the beans with a dish towel and turns to me, still smiling. “Do you mind if I hit up the piano?”

“Not if you don’t mind me sketching you again.”

He shakes his head. “I still think you’re lying about the lines in my face.”

“Nope, totally telling the truth about that.” The lines through his cheekbones are fascinating, and paired with his freckles, he makes the best model for character studies, and no, I’m not biased at all. “I can show you some I made of Reiner earlier.”

“I’d like to see those.” Marco likes seeing all my drawings, especially the ones I do of our friends, and I’ve been drawing more and more lately. My coffee table has pretty much become my art table, although I have to be really careful about putting my pencils away, less a certain little black demon knocks them all under the couch. I don’t know why Parvati has a vendetta against my pencils, but she definitely does.

“You go practice first. I’ll show you after you’re done.” I’m not embarrassed by my work—not really, and I keep the sketches I’m not proud of hidden away—but I like to clean them up a little before I show them to Marco. Simple stuff, adding lines and some basic colors, but it makes me feel better about them.

“Okay.” He heads into the living room, and I follow him, trying not to blatantly admire the view. It’s hard though; it’s so, so hard, having such a fine ass around and not being allowed to openly gawk at it. Or am I allowed to gawk? Maybe, but our budding relationship feels too fragile, too new, for me to be as gross and grabby as I want.

Marco settles himself on the piano bench, and Parvati leaps up beside him, curling into a ball next to his leg and purring up a storm. She loves the piano, for some reason, and always sits next to Marco when he plays. Marco speculates it’s because she likes the vibrations from the instrument; I think, privately, that it’s because she appreciates his beefy, finely muscled thighs as much as I do, and she’s lucky she’s a cat and gets to drape herself all over them. Who knew, six weeks ago, that I’d spend so much of time being jealous of various cats?

Marco starts with some scales, easy stuff, and I notice that his right hand is having an easier time keeping up with his left. He can play frighteningly fast with his left hand—the second or third time I heard him play, he was frustrated with his lack of speed on the right side, and pounded out the bass line to the second movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, making me jump and sending Parvati fleeing under the couch—but he still struggles with the right. We haven’t played together since that first time; this is therapy for him, not Flirt with Jean time, and it’s better for his recovery if he works through things with his right hand on his own. Besides, I couldn’t keep up with the speeds he plays at, even if I wanted to. 

I lean against the side of the couch, propping my sketchpad up on my knees, and while Marco plays scales, I finish the best sketch of Reiner from earlier today. He’s laughing in it and pointing at something off the paper—the tv screen, in this case—and I’ve drawn some of the cupcakes scattered around the table. I might even color in the traitorous filling.

The coloring is soothing, paired with Marco’s soft scales, and by the time he switches to something more complicated, I’m done with the sketch. It’s a good one, one I’m proud of, and I set it aside for later. I’ll probably give it to Reiner the next time I see him, after I take a few pictures of it and squirrel those away in the slowly-growing folder of my own art that I have on my computer.

But now, it’s time for Marco.

There’s something unspeakably sexy about a person playing the piano, and part of the reason I prop my sketchbook on my knees is to hide the inevitable half chub I’m going to get from watching him. He leans low over the bench, his nose nearly touching the keyboard sometimes, and his hands fly back and forth over the keys, sometimes moving so fast I sketch them just as blurs, as a collection of lines and marks soaring across the paper. Sometimes I just draw his hands, elegant and freckled, long-fingered and broad across the palm, perfect pianist hands, the tendons and veins standing out on the back as he pounds on the keys. Other times I focus on his back, and the curve of it, the way he bends to and fro as he plays, the flexibility and movement in his spinal cord like no other pianist I’ve ever seen. He’s always moving as he plays, and it’s a wonderful contrast to how he does yoga, where he holds himself so still it’s like he’s turned into a living statue.

And of course, I’ve got a boner again, and he’s barely even started playing.

Marco plays for about forty minutes—he can’t seem to manage much longer than that, not without his right hand going out on him, and he stops before that happens—and Marco sighs as he closes the keyboard. Parvati looks up, and rubs her head under his arm, encouraging him to reach down and pet her.

“Jean?” he asks, and he sounds almost uncertain, a vocal inflection I’m not used to hearing from Marco.

“Yeah?” I almost feels sacrilegious to break the silence after his music, and I keep my voice low and hushed.

“What are you doing next weekend?”

Where the hell had that come from? “Uh… going to yoga and then hanging out with you, probably?”

The corners of his eyes are crinkled with good humor when he looks up, something that makes him simultaneously look both older and younger. It’s those freckles, they’re deceiving! “I’m not teaching next weekend, silly. It’s Thanksgiving.”

Oh. Right, the American holiday. I shrug, embarrassed that I’d forgotten. “Uh, probably nothing then. Hanging out at home.”

Marco stands up and comes over to the couch, and I move my legs so he can sit down. He settles in next to me and pulls my legs into his lap, and if you think I’ve got a problem with that, you haven’t been paying attention. “Your family doesn’t celebrate it?”

I look down at my sketchpad (skillfully placed to hide my erection, which will wilt pretty well on its own if we’re going to talk about this particular topic). “We used to. My dad always loved it.” I pause, gathering my thoughts, and Marco waits patiently, trailing his fingertips up and down one of my shins. “After he died… well, my mom is European, you know, so she never really got it, and my uncle… he stopped wanting to celebrate. Now he only cares about Christmas and the Fourth of July.” 

Marco wrinkles his nose. “Your uncle likes the Fourth of July?”

“I know, right? Never underestimate the appeal of getting to blow something up and call it patriotic.” I sigh and stretch my legs, and Marco’s hand ends up on my knee, which is attached to my thigh, which makes my dick start to pay attention to matters again. “So no, we don’t do anything. I don’t have any plans.”

“That’s good!” My head shoots up at that bright, perky response, and Marco hurries to explain. “I mean, it’s not good that your family doesn’t celebrate anymore, that part kind of sucks, but it _is_ good that you don’t have any plans.” He takes a deep breath and looks right into my eyes, and I swear, if this is a marriage proposal and Marco wants to go elope in a courthouse on Thanksgiving Day, I am one hundred percent down with that plan. “Do you want to come and have dinner with my family in Jinae?”

I boggle at him; of all the things he could have asked, I was expecting this one the least. “You… is your family okay with that?” I can’t imagine they’d want an interloper on this special day.

Marco nods, his expression brightening, like he senses my eventual capitulation. “I already asked! My mom is fine with it, she said she wants to meet you, and Ilse and Isaac are both really curious about you!”

“Been talking about me to them, have you?” I ask, and manage a crooked grin. I’m gratified when Marco blushes prettily and starts playing with the band of my sock.

“I’ve told them about you. They want to meet you.” He looks back up, watching me from under his eyelashes, and it’s not like I needed more convincing, but damn, it’d take someone with a heart of stone to deny him when he looks like this. “Will you come?”

Like there was ever any doubt. “Of course I will.” I’m pretty honored to even be invited, if I’m being honest. “Do you know anyone who can take care of Parvati while I’m gone?”

Marco laughs, the sound filling the room just like his piano playing but sweeter, and his smile could light up the night sky. “Yeah, sure! She can come stay with Aisha and Loaf, my neighbor watches them when I’m gone, she’ll be fine!”

“So it’s settled, then.” I grin back at him, and if we never do anything more than this, if we’re never more intimate than we are right now, I think I can be okay with that. “What time are we leaving?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand we're back!
> 
> This chapter is a bit of a bridging chapter, one that's needed to lead into the next bit of the story. The next arc is the last major one for Namaste (she says optimistically, knowing full well she could get distracted and blather more than she intended).


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco tells a secret and Jean meets the family.

Thursday morning dawns bright and clear, cold in that crisp, biting way that promises snow later on, and I’m grateful that Adelaide’s heater works so well as I pull out of my building’s parking lot. Parvati whines from her carrier on the passenger seat, and I mutter soft, soothing sounds to her all the way to Marco’s apartment; she isn’t convinced, and has graduated to full-blown yowling by the time we get there.

“You know, you’re making me feel progressively less bad about leaving you behind,” I tell her as I pull her carrier out of the car. That’s a lie, I feel terrible about upsetting her so badly, but Marco’s family has a cat, and it’s easier to leave her with cats she knows instead of strangers.

I carry her up the five flights of stairs to Marco’s place, and I’m huffing and puffing by the time I reach the top. My little kitten is starting to turn into a cat, and she’s a lot heavier than she was before. Marco is waiting in his doorway, looking incredibly fetching in a white buttoned shirt, a dark blue sweater, and a pair of khakis, and he makes me forget all about my aching eardrums and pounding calf muscles.

“Jean!” he burbles, and hurries forward, taking Parvati’s carrier off my heads and brushing one of those quick, glancing kisses off the side of my head. “I could hear you all the way up the stairs.”

I grin and shuffle my hands, resplendent with a new set of scratches, into the pockets of my worn old leather jacket. “Someone wasn’t very happy about going in her carrier.”

“I guess not.” Marco lifts the carrier to eye level and coos at Parvati inside. “Hey there, little one, guess where you are? Guess who’s happy to see you?”

Judging by the angry burring sound Parvati makes, she doesn’t think anyone is going to be happy to see her, and she’s probably right. “Is Aisha going to be pissed that she’s here?”

“Probably a little. But Aisha is pretty used to having a rotating cast of other cats come through. She’ll get over it. Loaf won’t care either way, as long as she leaves his food dish alone.” Marco takes the carrier inside, gesturing to me with his head. “Come on in. I want to make sure they don’t tear each other apart before we leave.”

~*~

Parvati and Aisha resolve their differences pretty quickly—Parvati baps Aisha a good one on the nose, they hiss at each other a little, Loaf sits on my foot, and by the time we leave, they’re chasing each other and playing just like they used to.

“You’re going to have black cat hairs everywhere by the time you get back,” I tell Marco as we hoof it down the stairs to where Adelaide is waiting.

He rolls his eyes. “Like I don’t have cat hairs everywhere already.” He gestures down at his outfit, now topped by an extremely handsome gray peacoat. “The entire morning was a careful evasion of any surface that might have cat hair on it, which was _all of them_. I should’ve just brought my clothes and changed when we get there.”

“You look really nice, though.” So nice that I’m feeling a little underdressed.

“Thank you, Jean. You look pretty good yourself.”

He thinks I’m good-looking!

~*~

The ride to Jinae usually takes a few hours, or so I’ve been told; I’ve never had a reason to go to Jinae before, never had any interest in driving up into farm country. Now, though, the highway is empty, everyone else having already gotten where they’re going, and as we zoom north, Marco bounces with excitement in his seat and regales me with stories about the area, most of them focused around his teenaged years. I had no idea that cow-tipping was actually a thing people did.

“Doesn’t it hurt the cows?”

“Not really. It surprises them, more than anything.” Marco catches my expression, and laughs. “Don’t worry, I asked Dr. Zacharius about it once. He said they don’t like it, but it doesn’t hurt them. If anything, it reminds them of the importance of going back into the barn at night.”

“They won’t go back on their own?”

“Most of them do, but not all.” Marco leans in and drops his voice conspiratorially. “Cows are pretty stupid.”

“I guess so.” I’m such a city boy, I don’t know anything about the country. “Am I still going the right way?”

“Yes. Two more exits before we have to turn off.” Marco moves back to his own side of the car and sighs, leaning against Adelaide’s heated seats. “Thanks for giving me a ride, by the way. Reiner usually does it, but this year his family wanted him there for the whole day.”

Good Reiner, best wingman. “It’s no trouble. Thanks for inviting me to join.” I shoot him a side-long grin. “Your mom will like the flowers, right?”

“Oh, she’ll love them!” Marco enthuses, glancing over his shoulder at the bouquet in the backseat. “You’re going to win yourself so many brownie points with those.”

“Excellent.” That’s right, Marco, I’m going to charm your mom and make her like me so that she’s always asking about that nice Kirschtein boy and when she’ll see him again. I drive in silence for a few moments, until I see the exit that Marco mentioned. “This one?”

“This one. Take the exit ramp and turn left.”

“Cool.” I guide Adelaide off the freeway and onto a two-lane country road. It’s hard to believe we’re only a few hours outside of Trost and it already looks like another world. “Marco, can I ask you something? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“With a set up like that, how can I refuse?” I glance over to make sure he’s not giving me shit, but no, he’s just watching me with a sweetly conscientious expression. “Sure, ask away. You already know my darkest secret.”

“Why don’t you drive?” He’s never once asked to drive Adelaide, and even Bertolt has expressed interest in taking her for a spin by now. Reiner has driven her twice, taking us home from yoga, and Bertolt was content to drive her around a parking lot a few times before handing the wheel back over to me. Marco has never asked or expressed any interest, and I’ve never seen him behind the wheel of any vehicle. Maybe he just never learned, but the further out we get into Jinae, the less likely that seems. This seems like the kind of place where kids start driving farm trucks and tractors around when they’re ten or something.

Marco’s quiet for awhile, and I think he’s not going to answer. I’m about to take it back, to tell him he doesn’t need to say anything, when he speaks again, his voice thoughtful. “I’m not allowed to. Legally, I mean.”

“Say what?” I was expecting an answer about PTSD and anxiety, if I got one at all, and I swivel in my seat to look at him. “How’d that happen?”

“Watch the road, Jean, it’s slippery.” He keeps his mouth shut until I turn back around and pay attention to the road. “It happened after I got home from overseas. It, uh… it’s not just nerve damage in my hand that I got there.”

“Do you have migraines or seizures or something?” I think he would have told me that by now, or Reiner would have mentioned something, but he could be really good at hiding it.

“I got migraines at first, but not anymore. I’ve never had a seizure, as far as I know.” He sounds amused, thank god, so at least I haven’t offended him. “I lost an eye over there. One of them is made of glass.”

“What!” I nearly slam on the brakes, right then and there. “You’re shitting me!”

“I am most certainly not shitting you.”

“You have to be! There’s _no way_ one of your eyes is glass!”

“My ocularist will be pleased to hear that.” Marco shifts in his seat, turning to fully face me. “If you pull over, I can show you the difference.”

“Really?” I don’t need much persuading, and guide Adelaide onto the shoulder, turning on my hazards so no one hits us from behind. I undo my seatbelt and turn to face him, already trying to figure out which one is fake and which one is real. “If you touch it, does it make a clinking sound?”

“Only if I touch it with something made of glass.” Marco opens his eyes wide and holds still. “Go on. See if you can find the glass one.”

I get as close as I can, close enough that I could kiss him really easily, if I were so inclined, and stare directly into his eyes. It’s the first time we’ve had, and held, this kind of eye contact, and it would be incredibly intimate if I wasn’t a man on a mission, trying to tell which one is fake and which one is real. Unfortunately for my sleuthing abilities, they look exactly the same. Even the little lines in the irises are identical.

“I… have no idea,” I admit, and Marco chuckles, the breath from his laughter warm on my cheek.

“Here.” He presses something round and cylindrical into my hand, and although my first thought is _dildo_ , it turns out to be a little flashlight from his keyring. “Shine this in them and see which pupil gets smaller.”

I twist the flashlight, turning it on, and hold it up to his face. He squints at the sudden bright light in his face—it must be shocking after the grey, muted light outside—and the pupil in his left eye contracts, while the right one stays the same size.

“It’s the right eye!” My voice fills the car, ringing and triumphant, and I immediately tone it down. C’mon, Kirschtein, use your inside voice. “The right one is glass!”

“That’s right.” Marco takes hold of my wrist, gently tugging my arm down so the light isn’t in his eyes anymore, and I watch with a child’s delight as his left pupil dilates. “You… you really can’t tell the difference?”

“Not until you told me the light trick.” And I’ve spent _a lot_ of time looking at your eyes, Marco, so trust me, I know. I realize that I’ve almost climbed into his lap, and I rock back on my heels, back to a more neutral part of the seat. It might just be wistful thinking and imagination on my part, but I swear Marco looks a little disappointed when I do.

“That’s… okay. Great. That’s great.” He laughs a little and flops backwards, running a hand over his face. “You really couldn’t tell?”

“Not at all.” I slip back to my own side and buckle in, although I don’t pull onto the road quite yet. I’m not the sharpest guy in the world when it comes to emotions, but I get the sense that we’re not done talking about this yet. “I mean, seriously, I would’ve thought they were both real forever if you hadn’t said something.” 

Marco’s quiet for another moment, his hand still on his face, but when he lowers it and turns towards me, I swear I catch a glimpse of tears in the corners of his eyes. “Thank you, Jean. Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome?” Thanks for what? Maybe I’m not as good at emotions as I thought.

Marco smiles, and turns back towards the road. “If you go down this road another three miles or so, there’ll be a turnoff on the right. Take it, and we’ll be at my mom’s house in another half hour.”

Okay, I guess we’re done here. I guide Adelaide back to the street and start looking for the turnoff.

~*~

Jinae is adorable. Marco directions me through the center of town, and I’m not ashamed that I slow way down and gawk at the charming little buildings and the town square. I’m a Trost boy, born and bred, city slicker all the way, but Jinae is ridiculously cute.

“Do you like it?” Marco asks.

“You didn’t tell me it was this cute!”

He chuckles, but there isn’t much humor in the sound. “I guess so.”

“You don’t like it?” A traffic light turns red ahead of us, and I guide Adelaide to a stop, turning in my seat a little so I can see him better.

Marco shrugs with one shoulder. “It’s hard to find it charming when you spent your entire adolescence wanting to get away from it.”

“Oh.” I mull it over a moment before nodding. “Yeah, I can see that. It looks like the type of place where they roll up the sidewalks at eight PM.”

“Eight PM?” Marco glances over at me and rolls his eyes, although he’s smiling again, looking a little more cheerful. “Try seven thirty, city boy.”

I laugh, more than the joke warrants, but it makes Marco laugh too, and that’s really all I could ask for. “So I take it you wanted to get away as soon as you could?”

“I enlisted the day after my eighteenth birthday. Shipped out a week later.”

“Damn.” The light changes, and I guide Adelaide down the deserted street. “You didn’t want to go to college?”

“I did, but I wanted to get away more.” He sighs, then makes that sad chuckling noise again. “I should’ve weighed my options a little more carefully. I’d gotten accepted to Trost U, I could have just moved down there.”

“And then you would have met me!” I pause, reconsidering. “Well, a year later, anyway. You could’ve been my upperclassman sensei.”

“Did you _need_ an upperclassman sensei?”

“Oh god, yes. You have no idea what kinds of stupid shit I got into my freshman year. Having you around would have tempered me down a little.”

Marco reaches across the car and pats my arm, then links his fingers loosely around my wrist for a moment. “I would have liked that, I think. Although it would’ve been hard to keep things in a strict, sensei-student relationship.”

I thrill inside when I hear that, my heart thudding loudly in my chest for several beats. “It would’ve?”

“Oh, yes.” Marco squeezes my wrist before taking his hand back. “I would have _totally_ taken advantage of your trusting nature.”

“My…” I burst out laughing. “My trusting nature? Have you _met_ me?”

Marco smiles, and there’s something knowing in it, something intimate, something shared just between the two of us. “I think I could probably talk you into all sorts of things, if I really put my mind to it.”

I open my mouth to protest, but I can’t. He’s right, he’s totally right, he could use his liquid words and silver tongue to get me to do whatever he wanted—especially if he used that silver tongue on certain parts of my anatomy—and he knows it, dammit. I can feel my cheeks heating up in a blush, and I focus all my attention on the road, even though we’re only going about twenty miles an hour.

“Don’t worry, Jean,” Marco tells me, and he sounds like Parvati looks after she’s gotten on top of the refrigerator and is surveying the kitchen like a tiny queen. “I promise to only use my powers for good.”

“I hope so,” I mutter under my breath, and Marco laughs quietly, lapsing into a companionable silence after that, only speaking up to direct me down a side street and towards his house.

His family house is smaller than I expected, a simple two story tucked away at the end of a cul-de-sac. It’s well-kept, with flower boxes on all the windows and neatly painted shutters, somehow a piece of the old world that got transported to suburbia. I park on the street, behind a beat up Toyota that I assume belongs to one of Marco’s siblings, and turn off Adelaide. I take a deep breath in the suddenly quiet car.

“Hey, Marco…”

But I’m too late. He’s already out the door, barreling up the lawn, and I see why a moment later. The front door of the house has been flung open, and a short, slender woman is charging down from the house, her arms wide and her dark hair flying behind her like a flag.

“Marcooooooo!” She leaps into his arms, and he catches her, letting her momentum spin them around, and for a moment I’m horrified, thinking he’s going to trip and they’ll both fall to the frosty lawn. It’s been freezing over every night for a week, that ground has to be rock hard! But Marco’s graceful and strong and after spinning her a few times, he puts her down and glomps on. He’s so much taller than she is, she looks frail and tiny in his arms, and he leans over her, surrounding her in his arms.

I get out of the car slowly, giving them time to talk and get re-acquainted, and dawdle getting our stuff out of the backseat.

“You need help with that?”

I look up, and do a double-take. The man standing next to me is a taller, beefier, younger version of Marco, with a bristly military haircut and fewer freckles scattered across his face. I must be gawking, because the kid rolls his eyes before extending his hand. “Isaac. I’m Marco’s brother. And you’re Jean.”

“Uh… hi.” I somehow remember how to move my arm, and reach up to shake his hand. He has a firm, powerful grip, but he doesn’t hold on long enough to make my hand hurt, instead dropping it to lean into the car.

“Sweet ride.”

“Thanks.” He emerges with Marco’s duffel bag tossed over his shoulder and my wheeled suitcase in the other, and I’m struck with sudden stage-fright, performance anxiety, whatever you want to call it, because I blurt out something I’d normally never, ever say to someone I just met. “You want to drive her later?”

“What, really?” His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and he suddenly grins, a grin so sweetly reminiscent of Marco’s that it feels like I’m getting a glimpse into the past. “That’d be amazing, man.”

“Maybe after dinner?” Oh shit, he’s a teenager, he’s going to wreck Adelaide, shiiiiiiiit…

“Sure.” The smile fades a little, and he turns to bellow at Marco. “Yo, dork! I’m borrowing your boyfriend and driving later!”

Marco looks up from what seems to be a very intense conversation with his sister, but I barely notice, because I’m too busy looking down and scuffling my feet in embarrassment. Apparently Isaac has a very different idea of what Marco and I are to each other, because as far as I know, we’re not boyfriends. Not from lack of trying, but lack of opportunity.

Marco’s voice rolls down the lawn, calm and amused. “You’re going to drive my boyfriend later, Isaac?”

“What? No! I didn’t say that!” Judging by the amount he’s getting flustered, Isaac is a good old red-blooded straight boy.

“You totally did,” Marco’s sister chimes in, and I look up, realizing I have an ally. She’s standing next to Marco with his arm comfortably draped around his shoulder, and I realize that this is the sister that got him going to yoga. This is the sister that saved his life, and damn, I owe this girl the world. She catches my eye and waves at me, a big enthusiastic one, and I wave back, keeping my arm close to my body and only using my hand.

“I didn’t… _dammit_!” Isaac hoists the bags and starts manually dragging them up to the house, shooting Marco a dirty look on his way past.

“Love you too, Isaac-bunny!” Marco calls after him, and he and his sister dissolve into giggles as Isaac shoots the bird at them over his shoulder.

I approach the two of them, and when she sees me coming closer, Marco’s sister takes hold of his arm and drags him down to meet me, only dropping it when she’s close enough to sling both arms around me in a huge bearhug. I almost drop the flowers I’m carrying, but Reiner has done this to me enough times that I don’t. Instead, I wrap one arm around her in a half-hug, until Marco takes the flowers from me and I can use both arms.

“Hi,” she says into my ear. “I’m Ilse.”

“Hey,” I answer, trying to hug back with as much enthusiasm as she’s hugging me. Girl is little, but she’s strong. “I’m Jean.”

“I know.” She releases the hug, but keeps hold of my shoulders, holding me back at arm’s length. “Marco’s told me all about you.”

I grin at her; this feels like more familiar territory. “Good things, I hope.”

“Very good things.” She flashes a toothy smile in response, then looks at Marco. “You didn’t tell me he was _this_ hot!”

“ _Ilse_!” Marco hisses, his face coloring red, and I laugh. I like this girl.

“No, Ilse, please, continue. Tell me all about what Marco told you about my dashing good looks.”

Ilse opens her mouth, Marco’s jaw drops, and I’m about to get the motherlode of priceless close-sibling gossip, but then another voice floats out to us.

“Marco? _Tesoro_?”

“ _Mama_!” Marco thrusts the flowers back into my hands—at this rate, they’re all going to be broken and dead before his mom gets them—and runs up the lawn, his long legs casting dark shadows across the frost-dead grass. I have time to look up and see a short, square woman, her face splattered with constellations of freckles, before Marco engulfs her, hugging her with just as much enthusiasm as he hugged his sister.

“Don’t worry,” Ilse says conversationally, moving to my side and sliding her arm through mine, “I know he wishes he could hug you like that.”

I chuckle, trying to hide the awkward threatening to move up my throat. “I guess Isaac doesn’t like hugs?”

“Oh, he likes them well enough.” She starts walking me towards the house, taking a slow, leisurely pace, and I’m happy to let her lead. “But he’s trying to look cool in front of you right now.”

“Why would he care about looking cool in front of me?” I get it, though, I really do. The teenage male ego is a delicate thing, and I’m an unknown male encroaching on his turf.

Ilse rolls her eyes—a paler shade of brown than Marco’s—and I can tell she knows exactly why Isaac is trying to look cool. “I’m pretty sure that if you let him drive your car, you’ll have a loyal minion for life.”

“Is he a good minion?”

She seesaws her hand back and forth in the air. “So so. He has his moments.”

“Ilse!” Marco’s mom might be older, but she’s still got a pair of lungs on her. “Stop hogging Marco’s young man and bring him up here so I can see him!”

“Her Majesty beckons,” Ilse tells me with a sidelong smirk, and starts moving faster, hustling me along to the porch. 

Marco is standing beside his mother, beaming and looking completely delighted to have everyone he cares about together in one place, and if I thought Isaac looked like a Marco clone, then his mother looks like she might be the same damn person. Marco’s face is reflected almost perfectly in hers—the same angles, the same lines, the same sweetly upturned nose, the freckles that I’d swear are in almost the exact same places—and if it weren’t for the lines around her eyes and the way her hair has turned a handsome, steely grey, she could be Marco’s twin sister rather than his mom. I don’t know what genes her husband contributed to the family, but Marco’s mom clearly donated the lion’s share.

“You are Jean,” she announces as Ilse and I climb the porch steps.

“Yes, ma’am,” I answer, and offer her the slightly mangled bouquet of flowers. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She takes the flowers with a smile and a cursory glance before shifting them to one arm and moving in. By now, I know what to expect (and I know where Marco gets it), and I’m enveloped in a sweet-smelling mom hug. She’s quite a bit shorter than my mom, but she has the same tensile strength in her hugs, and when she moves her hand to the back of my head to pull me down, I bite the inside of my cheek and smile. Do moms ever get over it when their sons grow taller than they do?

“I’m happy to meet you too,” she tells me, her voice lightly accented with an Italian lilt. “Marco has been telling me all about his _caro_.”

“ _Mom_!” Marco sounds scandalized while Ilse giggles, and while I don’t understand Italian, I’m pretty sure that was the equivalent of when my mom calls Marco _schön_.

“I hope I live up to expectations,” I answer, and she smiles, her face crinkling into familiar, well-worn laugh lines, and cups the side of my face with one hand.

“My dear, there is only one thing Marco didn’t tell me about you.” Before I can ask what that is, she turns to her son and unloads. “Marco, you didn’t tell me you weren’t feeding the boy! Look how thin he is! Haven’t you been making him proper food?”

Marco throws his hands up in the air. “We eat! We eat all the time!”

“Not enough! Look at him, he’s wasting away before my eyes!” She slips her arm through mine, the same way Ilse did moments ago, and starts hauling me into the house. “Come, Jean, you need to eat. Do you like soup? The soup is almost done, I hope you like minestrone.”

“Minestrone sounds wonderful, ma’am.” There’s no resisting an old world mother when she gets it in her head to feed you, and I cast a rueful glance over my shoulder at Marco. He shakes his head, but he’s smiling, and as he and Ilse follow us into the house, I start to feel right at home.

He’s told his family so much about me that they assume I’m his boyfriend, and accept me as one of their own. This weekend is already starting to feel like a win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at how Marco is opening up to Jean, and how Marco's family immediately latches onto him. It's almost like Marco's been talking about Jean to them like Jean's his boyfriend...
> 
> Also! Look at these amazing [traitor cupcakes](http://missazrael.tumblr.com/post/141708761102/chibichan449-nutritionalhealthisbeauty-i) ChicaLatina449 made! How cool are those? They're exactly how I pictured them when I was writing about them.
> 
> I'm also busy procrastinating about writing over on Tumblr right now, so if you have any questions you'd like to ask about Namaste, [take a gander over yonder](http://missazrael.tumblr.com/post/141544286232/reblog-if-you-are-a-fanfiction-author-and-would) and send me a number. I love blathering about my process, so all questions are welcome.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco's family.

The inside of the house is warm and cluttered and filled with delicious smells, and while I want to explore, I know better than to cross a mother intent on feeding someone. Mrs. Bott (“Rosa, dear, you call me Rosa”) hustles me into the kitchen and plunks me down at a well-worn wooden table that looks like it might be a family heirloom, brought over from the old country. Within moments, she has a steaming, fragrant bowl of soup sitting in front of me, along with rolls that are still warm from the oven, and she sits down across from me, watching seriously as I try a spoonful of the soup.

It’s immediately obvious where Marco gets his cooking skill; the flavors explode across my tongue, rich and vibrant and unlike any minestrone soup I’ve ever had before, and I close my eyes and make a quiet sound in the back of my throat as I swallow.

“It tastes good?” she asks, but judging how her eyes are crinkling at the corners, she already knows.

I lean across the table and pitch my voice low, making her move in towards me so she can hear. “Ma’am, don’t tell my mother, but this is the best soup I’ve ever eaten.”

Her laughter sounds just like Marco’s, and she swats at me with a kitchen towel as she stands up. “You’re a flatterer.”

“Just telling the truth, ma’am.” I slurp another spoonful of soup, and grab a roll to dunk into it.

“Rosa. Not Mrs. Bott, not ma’am, _Rosa_.” She waves her towel at me before heading back to the stove, which is crowded with pots and pans, all of them boiling or steaming merrily away. 

“Yes, ma’a… Rosa.” It feels odd to call her by her first name, and I try to mask the feeling by shoveling another spoonful of soup into my face. I burn the roof of my mouth, but it’s totally worth it.

“Good boy.” She stirs and monitors the pots and pans, controlling them like a conductor with a symphony. “I can see why Marco…”

“Why Marco what?” The man in question enters the kitchen, and for the first time, I want to kick him. Dammit, Marco, why _now_? Your mom was about to spill some dirt!

“Nothing, _tesoro_.” Rosa grabs an apron off a hook and tosses it to Marco, who catches it deftly and starts putting it on, the action smooth and practiced, one he’s done countless times before. He sees me watching, and drops his right eye closed in a wink. I shoot him a thumbs up, realizing that he winked at me with his right eye so he could still see me while he did. 

“What do you need help with?” he asks, and Rosa takes charge, putting him to work at first chopping up vegetables for a salad and then cracking the sink full of dishes. I dawdle, eating my soup and watching them interact, listening to them chatter, switching effortlessly back and forth between Italian and English. Ilse wanders in at some point and sits across from me, stealing one of my rolls and munching on it.

“So, Jean,” she says, as her mother and Marco dissolve into what sounds like an argument in Italian, complete with big, sweeping hand gestures, “did you like Jinae?”

“It’s a lot cuter than I thought it would be,” I answer, tilting my bowl towards me to get the last few drops of soup onto my spoon. “Marco says it was pretty boring growing up here, though.”

“Oh yeah, I can’t imagine what it was like for him. Isaac and I had the Internet, at least.” She glances over at her mom and oldest brother, her expression impossibly fond, and for a moment, I find myself wishing my parents hadn’t stopped after me, that I could have a brother or sister like them. It’s nonsense, I know, there’s no guarantee my hypothetical sibling and I would even get along, but it’s a nice thought either way. Ilse turns back to me, blowing her bangs—cut long to hide the wide forehead she shares with her brothers—out of her face. “It’s nice, I guess. But I still took off to Trost as soon as I could.”

“Do you go to Trost U?” I know she’s twenty years old, so Trost U just makes sense.

She grins and points a finger at me. “That’s right. I’ll have enough credits to be a technical junior next semester.”

“Damn, good for you.” The curse is out of my mouth before I can think to rein it in, and I glance towards the stove, suddenly stupidly afraid that Rosa heard me. She and Marco are laughing over something while stirring furiously, so I’m in the clear.

Ilse is grinning when I look back at her. “Don’t worry,” she says, deliberately lowering her voice, “Mom won’t get on you for swearing, since you’re a fucking guest and shit.”

“ _Ilse Maria_!”

Ilse ducks, getting her hands above her head just in time to block the incoming dish towel. “Just telling Jean the rules, Mom!” she manages through bursts of laughter. 

I guess Rosa was listening after all. She spends the next few minutes delivering a blistering lecture to her daughter while Marco dutifully tends the pots and pans on the stove and makes faces behind her back, and I wish I knew Italian because I have the feeling I’m missing out on some great turns of phrase here.

“And in front of Marco’s _amante_!” Rosa finishes, and I try hard to remember that word, because I notice how Marco’s eyes widen when she uses it to describe me and I need to know the wifi password around here so I can Google Translate it. Her lecture with her daughter done, Rosa turns to me. “I’m so sorry for my daughter’s language, Jean.”

“It’s okay, Rosa, really.” I hold up my hands, showing her both my palms. “I’m not offended, I swear.”

“ _I_ am offended for you,” she sniffs. She sees the empty bowl in front of me and swoops down on it. “Are you still hungry, _tesoro_? Do you want more soup?”

“No thank you.” She starts looking thundery again, so I hurry to clarify. “I want to save some room for the main event later.”

“A smart boy.” She approves of that plan, and pats my shoulder. “Ilse,” she turns back on her daughter, who jumps, caught in the act of Marco passing her some kind of roll, “will you take Jean upstairs? He needs to unpack his things.”

“Sure thing, Mama.” If she’s upset about that lecture, Ilse doesn’t show it. She hops to her feet, leaning over Marco to grab another roll, and then jerks her head towards the living room. “C’mon, Jean, you’re bunking with Isaac this weekend.”

I push back, getting up and taking the roll Ilse gives me. “Sure thing. Thank you for the soup, Rosa.”

“You’re welcome, my dear.” She’s already back at the stove, stirring and mixing and clucking over all the pots and pans.

“I hope you don’t mind traditional Italian food,” Ilse tells me as she leads me into the living room. “We tried for years to talk Mom into making a turkey, and she flat out refuses.”

“It’s fine. My mom usually made sausages.” I’m in no hurry to get upstairs, and start wandering around the living room. I see childhood school photos on the wall, and by god, I’m going to go and check those out. Ilse is content to let me drift, and follows me over to the wall.

“That’s right, your mom’s German, isn’t she?”

“ _Ja_.” Rosa has those big picture frames with the circles, the kind where the biggest spot is reserved for the senior picture and the other ones go around it, and she has one for each of her kids. Ilse was an adorable little girl and the big space n the middle of Isaac’s is still empty, waiting for a senior picture that will be taken sometime this spring, but it’s Marco’s that’s drawn my attention. He was _fucking precious_ as a kid, all smiles and a bad haircut and missing teeth, and I’m fascinated by the progression from chubby, round-cheeked child into a handsome, beautiful teenager.

“I figured you’d like these,” Ilse says, standing next to me and rocking back on her heels. “Don’t look at the one of me from third grade, okay?”

“You were a really cute kid,” I tell her, although I do sneak a glance at the picture from third grade. It is… not flattering.

She laughs. “It’s not me you’re looking at, let’s not kid ourselves.” She reaches past me and touches the frame with Marco’s pictures, ghosting her fingertips over the glass covering his right cheek. “He used to smile all the time,” she says, her voice soft and contemplative. “Even when he first joined the army, he smiled all the time. But then he went over there, and he got hurt, and he just… stopped.”

I glance over at her, my brows drawn down in confusion. “What’re you talking about? Marco smiles all the time.”

“He smiles all the time when he’s with you.” Ilse pats my shoulder like I’m the dumbest motherfucker to ever live, then takes my elbow. “C’mon, let’s get you upstairs. The food’ll be ready soon and if you want a nap or anything before the big shindig, now’s your chance.”

I’m too stupidly happy at her observation to care that I’m getting hustled along, and I grin like a doof all the way upstairs. The wall next to the stairs is covered with framed pictures too, and I catch glimpses of the Bott children in all their glory, everything from tiny babies with freckled faces to sunburned kids holding freshly caught fish. Some of the pictures have a man in them, someone tall and broad through the shoulders like Marco, and I assume it must be the missing Mr. Bott, dead before his time, just like my own dad.

Once we’re at the top of the stairs, it doesn’t take long to figure out which room belongs to Isaac; the door is closed, and deep, bass thumping music throbs behind it. Ilse bangs on it with enough force to make the frame shudder, and I hide a smile behind my hand when I hear the tone of Isaac’s voice when he answers.

“ _What_!”

“Jean needs to unpack his stuff!” Ilse yells cheerfully, and we hear muffled cursing as Isaac turns down the music and stomps to the door.

“I don’t know why he has to stay _here_ ,” he gripes, as soon as the door is open. “No offense, Jean, but _seriously_.”

“You know Mom’s rule,” Ilse reminds him, tweaking him on the nose with one finger.

Isaac scowls and bats her hand away. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“Uh, sorry to be invading your space,” I tell him, and Isaac sighs and shrugs.

“You don’t have any, like, weird shit you like to do that I should know about or anything, do you?”

I straighten my spine, look him dead in the eyes—so much like Marco’s eyes, but a little rounder and with a fire in them that is tempered by warmth in Marco’s—and smile brightly. “Sometimes I wear driving gloves when I’m just tooling around. No reason, I just like to. If you want, you can try it too.”

Isaac stares at me, his eyes widening in surprise, and then snorts laughter. “No thanks. Not unless you’ve got one of those fancy hats to wear with them.”

“A chap hat? I’ve got one, but I left it at home.” I’m a filthy hipster, sue me.

Ilse rolls her eyes as Isaac and I grin at each other, pleased by our idiocy, and heads back down the hall. “Okay, gonna leave you two to bond. Dinner’s going to be in a couple of hours.”

“Do I have time for a raid?” Isaac asks her, and I almost burst out laughing. Yeah, this kid and I are going to get along fine.

“If it’s a short one! You know Mom’ll turn off the wifi if you take too long getting down to dinner!”

“Tell me about it,” he mutters, and stands aside to let me into the room.

It’s a typical teenaged boy’s room, with posters of bands and sports teams on the wall—American football, I note, with a smug sense of superiority—clothes strewn every which way, and a cluttered desk with an old desktop taking up most of the space. The most notable part of the room is the bunk bed, and I eye it carefully as Isaac sits back down in front of his computer. My bag is sitting next to the ladder leading to the top bunk.

“I’ve got top bunk, I’m guessing?”

“I usually sleep on the lower one, yeah.” Isaac isn’t paying any attention to me, caught up in his raid. “There’re fresh sheets and blankets on the top one.”

“Thanks.” I don’t really have a lot to unpack, and I’m starting to climb to the top bunk to investigate, hoping there’s a plug close by so I can connect my phone, when Isaac pipes up again.

“Marco’s room is two doors down, across the hall.”

I pause, half up and half down the ladder. “Okay?”

Isaac keeps his eyes on the computer screen, the trials of battle reflected in his eyes. “Mom sleeps pretty deep. If you want to sneak over there tonight, I’m not going to say anything.”

It’s a good thing he’s not looking at me, so he won’t see me blush and look down at my hands on the ladder. “It’s, uh, it’s not like that. Your brother and I, we’re… we’re not together.”

That revelation is enough to get Isaac to pause his game and lean out from around his computer, one eyebrow raised in skepticism. “Are you shitting me?”

I hold up one hand. “No shitting. Honest to god truth.”

Isaac still looks like he doesn’t believe me. “Are you sure about that?”

“Pretty sure I’d know if we were.” He’s only a kid, but a man can only take so much sass before he starts to lash back.

Isaac purses his lips, then shrugs his shoulders and turns back to his raid. “Whatever you say, man. You two sure _act_ like you’re together.”

“So I’m told,” I mutter under my breath, and climb the rest of the way to the top bunk. It’s a narrow little space up here, but the blankets are clean and neatly made up, and I stretch out on my back, feeling the kinks of travel work their way out of spine. I wasn’t planning on napping, but one sounds nice right about now.

A few moments later, Isaac turns his music back on, and the entire room starts vibrating. I had thought it was loud out in the hall; it’s eardrum shattering in here. I like some good loud tunes as much as the next guy, but this is ridiculous.

“Hey.” I lean out over the bed. “Would you mind using headphones?”

“What?” Isaac barely spares me a glance before looking back at his game, and I swear the bastard is smirking.

“Turn it down!” Everything I said about wanting a sibling? I take it back.

“I can’t!” Isaac yells back, and he’s definitely enjoying this. 

“You’re going to give me a headache!” He practically is already. And really, Slipknot? Really, Isaac? _Really_?

“Go lay down in Marco’s room!”

That little brat. That was his plan all along, and I can tell by the gleam in his eyes. That said, it’s a pretty good plan, and I only hesitate for a moment or two before sliding down out of the bunk and thunking down on the carpet.

“I’m going to snore so loud tonight,” I tell him on my way out.

He shrugs, not looking up from his game, but I catch his grin in the reflection of the computer. “Won’t be my problem.”

Conniving little sneak. Can’t say I’m not grateful though, and I don’t deny him when he lifts his hand up for a high five as I walk past.

It’s much quieter out in the hall, and even though I’m not doing anything wrong, I creep across the hall. Marco’s room is labeled neatly with a small, hand lettered sign with his name on it, and I smile to myself as I open the door. What a dork.

In contrast to the chaos of Isaac’s room and the clutter downstairs, Marco’s room is neat as a pin. It’s done up in blue and greens, masculine without being bro-y or douchey, and I laugh out loud when I see a framed print of ducks taking flight from a field on the wall. Marco, are you serious? 

A bookcase lines one whole wall, and I move over to it, investigating his titles. He has a fair amount of classical literature up there—his copy of _The Odyssey_ looks particularly well worn—and a lot on Eastern religion and philosophy too. I pick up the copy of _The Tao of Pooh_ , thinking it has to be a joke, and start thumbing through it. Turns out that’s actually a thing, that some guy decided to describe a religion using Winnie the Pooh as a metaphor, and I’m silently grateful that they used the original A.A. Milne illustrations and not that Disney bullshit. I tuck the book under my arm, curious to flip through it more, and keep looking. Down on the bottom shelf, tucked away behind some ancient car magazines and a copy or two of MAD, is a Dungeons and Dragons user’s guide. I snicker and pull it out, and as soon as I open it, old character sheets fall out. Marco played a cleric. Of course he did.

I put the DnD manual back and turn to the bed, where I notice a curled up ball of white fur watching me with rheumy eyes. 

“Hi, cutie,” I say softly, and hold my hand out. The ancient cat puts its head forward and sniffs my hand (Reiner taught me to do this with dogs, and while he says cats don’t depend on smell as much, it hasn’t failed me yet), then puts its head back on its paws. I sit on the edge of the bed, careful to to disturb the cat, and start petting it gently, its fur dry and coarse under my hand. After a few moments, the cat begins purring, and I smile. Somehow, I’ve turned into the type of guy who goes to someone’s house and spends all his time playing with the cat.

“Did you get stuck in here, handsome? Did you sneak in when someone was making the bed?” That sounds like a cat thing to do, and I get up, opening the door a crack so grandpa kitty can get out if he needs to. Then I go back to the bed, stretching out across it and bending my legs so I don’t bother the cat, and open _The Tao of Pooh_. Let’s see what this Taoism stuff is all about.

~*~

I wake up to the feeling of something dragging through my hair. Still more asleep than awake, I assume it’s Parvati, who has gotten in the habit lately of licking my hair while I’m sleeping, and I bat at whatever’s touching me.

“Par, no…”

Someone chuckles nearby, warm and affectionate. “Good try, but no.”

That’s not Parvati. I crack one eye open, and most of my vision is filled with Marco’s arm, stretching over to me and smoothing down my bedhead. I grunt and bury my head deeper in the pillow, which still has faint traces of Marco’s scent on it. There’s something hot and rumbling near my chest, and I remember grandpa kitty.

The bed creaks, and my weight shifts to the side as Marco sits down on the edge of the mattress. I roll forward a little, and my hip comes to a stop against him, which is a pretty great situation to be in. Marco doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to wake me up, and keeps stroking my hair, petting me like I’m one of his cats, and I understand now why Parvati is always so eager for petting when I get home from work.

After a few minutes of enjoying having him so close, and his hand in my hair (I’d purr if I could), I open my eyes and squint up at him. “What time is it?”

“About two. Mom’s getting the feast out.”

“Shit.” I start to sit up, but Marco leans his arm on me, keeping me to the mattress. If he keeps doing that, I’m going to get a stiff, so I relax and he stops holding me down. Duly noted: Marco holding me down turns my crank. Valuable information, should the opportunity to use it ever arises. “We’re not late, are we?”

“No.” Marco moves his hand from my hair to the cat, who moved up to my chest while I was napping and curled up there. “I see you met Snowball.”

“Yeah, he was in here when I came in.” Marco doesn’t correct me, so I assume the cat is, in fact, male. “I left the door open so he could get out.”

Marco nods. “He probably got in here when Mom was making the bed, and then she didn’t see him and shut the door.” He smiles, but it’s tinted with a little sadness. “He doesn’t move a whole lot anymore.”

“He’s a good boy.”

Marco nods. “Yeah, he is. Although you might not think so when you see the state of your sweater.”

I sit up—carefully, so as not to disturb the cat—look down at my chest, and groan. I’m covered, from collarbone to belt, with white cat hair. “Dammit.”

“It’ll match all the black cat hair you’ve already got,” Marco say innocently, and when I shoot him a dirty look, he starts giggling. “Do you want another sweater?”

“If you’ve got one, yeah.” I’d rather not venture back into Isaac’s territory to get my bag, not when I’ve got Marco all to myself and it’s peaceful and tinted gold. This is what I imagine being in a relationship with him would be like, and while we’re sort of in a relationship already, I want more. I know I want more. I want all of him, the good parts and the bad.

Marco stands up and goes to rummage in the closet. “I think I have some old ones in here. My ones from high school will probably fit you.”

“Okay.” I get to wear one of Marco’s old high school sweaters? Fucking _score_.

He pulls out a pale green one and offers it to me. “Will this work?”

“That’ll be fine.” Anything he wants to give me, I’ll take, and I stand up, pulling my cat-hair covered sweater over my head. It tugs on the t-shirt I’m wearing underneath, dragging it up a little and exposing some of my belly, and when I finally get it over my face, I’m delighted to see that Marco is looking at that exposed swathe of skin and—I hope—checking out the tangled mat of pale brown hair that leads down into my pants.

He’s less shameless than I am, and snaps his eyes back up to my face, biting at his lower lip. “Here.” He hands me the sweater and immediately starts petting Snowball, and I smile as I pull it on. It’s too big for me, the sleeves drape down past my hands and the neckline sprawls across my collarbones, but I’m not giving this back. No, this is my sweater now, and I need to sneak Snowball some delicious meat from the feast.

“Thanks.” I strike a pose. “How do I look?”

I’m not expecting an answer. I’m just trying to be silly, so when Marco opens his mouth and says “Beautiful,” without any forethought or consideration, my jaw drops down to my chest and I just stare at him. He seems to realize what he said and looks away, color rising into his cheeks, and gets really distracted petting the cat. “I mean, it looks good on you. Green is a good color for your skin tone.”

“Uh… thank you.” I look down too, tugging at the hem of the sweater. “It looks better on you, though.”

“Darker greens. That sweater was always too light.”

I start to open my mouth, and who knows what I’m going to say, what kind of nonsense is going to come out—a love confession, something about sweaters, asking him to marry me—when we hear Rosa calling from downstairs.

“Marco! Jean! Time to eat!”

We look at each other, our eyes meeting, and then both laugh, the tension draining out of the room. “Come on,” Marco says, moving towards the door. “We don’t want to keep her waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! So we're in the final stretch here, and I have some announcements.
> 
> The next chapter is The Chapter, the one where everything you've been waiting for happens. Because it's going to be such a big thing, I can't guarantee a Monday update next week. I want to take my time and make sure it's really solid. It'll probably be longer than usual, too. 
> 
> My next question is this: I could end Namaste after the next chapter. I have other things I want to clean up, so I _could_ keep going, or I could end it. What's your take? Do you want Namaste to keep going a little longer or end after the next chapter?


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Chapter

The dining room table, which is really just the kitchen table repurposed with an extra insert or two added, is groaning under the weight of all the food on it. It looks like Rosa was getting ready for an army to stop by and demand food, rather than feed her three children and one guest. My mom does the same thing, but not to the same extent; Ma Kirschtein could feed a passing platoon, at best. Mama Rosa is getting ready for the centurions of the Roman Empire to pay a visit.

And the food looks amazing. I don’t say it, because it’d probably be rude, but it looks like the set of a movie, _The Godfather_ or something, with plate after plate of pasta and meatballs and cheeses and vegetables simmering in fragrant sauces. The smell of it all is enough to make my mouth start watering, and my stomach chimes in too, growling loudly and reminding me that it hasn’t been fed since my bowl of soup earlier so please make with the deliciousness.

Marco hears it and laughs, reaching up and squeezing my shoulder. “That’s the right kind of attitude.”

I grin and duck my head before lifting my hand to his and giving his an answering squeeze. “It smells really good.”

“Thank you, Jean dear,” Rosa answers, brushing past us with a basket of rolls. “I hope you are hungry.”

“Starving,” I tell her, and she giggles, making the years drop away and sounding more like her son than she knows.

Isaac comes down the stairs like a small herd of elephants, and Ilse glides in from the living room, pulling a pair of earbuds out of her ears. Rosa organizes us around the table, fussing a little until everyone is where she wants them, and we all sit down. I start to go immediately for the food, and Marco elbows me gently in the ribs. I look over at him, confused, and then see that he’s extending his hand for me to take, already holding his mom’s hand with the other one. I take his hand, a little baffled, and then Ilse nudges me on the other side before reaching for my other hand. I’m so lost.

Rosa clears her throat and closes her eyes, and everyone else does the same. I hesitate, allowing myself a moment of admiring the tiny shadows Marco’s eyelashes cast across the tops of his cheeks, then close my eyes too. 

“Dear Lord,” Rosa begins, and I finally realize what’s going on. Ah, we’re praying, okay, I got this. We were never much for religion in my house, but I’ve seen enough movies to know how this goes, and I bow my head. “Thank you for this meal we’re about to enjoy together, and thank you for bringing all my children back under my roof for this happy day. Thank you for Jean, and how happy he makes Marco,” and Marco and Ilse both squeeze my hands when she says that, and I’m glad everyone’s eyes are closed so they can’t see how heat is rising in my cheeks, “and thank you for everyone’s continued health and happiness. Thank you for Ilse’s scholarship,” I squeeze Ilse’s hand, “and thank you for Isaac’s injury-free year on the football team. In your name, amen.”

“Amen,” everyone echoes, and I open my eyes and lift my head. Marco is watching me, wearing his smile that has oceans behind it, and I cross my eyes at him. He snorts, dropping his mother’s hand to hide his grin, and runs his thumb over the back of my knuckles before letting go.

“All right!” he announces, bright and cheerful. “Who’s hungry?”

The food tastes just as good as it looks and smells, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I eat like Loaf, attacking everything that makes its way onto my plate with gusto. Conversation drops for awhile as everyone eats, and that’s okay; it just speaks to the excellence of the food. I’ve gotten used to Marco’s cooking, which is excellent, but this is some next level stuff. I catch Rosa watching me a couple of time with a self-satisfied smile on her face, and hopefully she won’t feel like I’m too thin after this meal is done.

After the first round of eating, when everyone seems to sit back at about the same time and admit to needing a breather, the Bott family starts talking to each other, and I’m content to sit back and listen. I learn that Ilse is studying at the University of Trost, and that she’ll be performing in the Christmas pageant next month.

“Soprano,” she tells me without me asking, toying with her fork and moving a tomato around her plate. 

“You’re a music major?”

“Double major. Music and Journalism.” She drops a wink in my direction. “I couldn’t pick just one completely useless major, I had to go with two.”

“There’s still time to change to economics, _caro_ ,” Rosa says.

Ilse rolls her eyes. “Mom, _no_.”

“You know,” I say, not wanting them to start arguing again, “my uncle knows the editor for the Trost Press. We’ve done some design for their website. When you’re ready for an internship, I could have him put in a call for you.”

“Really?” Ilse’s eyes light up. “You’d do that for me?”

“Sure, why not?” I’m willing to prostrate myself before my uncle if it’ll help Ilse out. I don’t mention that my mom still knows some people in the Trost theater scene, and could put in calls on that level too; I’d rather not have Rosa attack me with a dishtowel. 

“Jean, that’d be amazing! Thank you!” She looks at her mother triumphantly. “See? Not useless!”

Turns out I didn’t prevent an argument after all, but it’s a softer, gentler one as they start going back and forth. Marco nudges me with his elbow, and when I look over at him, he mouths _thank you_. I wink at him, he leans in to bump me with his shoulder, and we go back to eating, waiting for Ilse and Rosa to stop bantering.

The rest of the meal is delightful, with talk flowing naturally back and forth between the Botts. I keep myself out of it, knowing that they don’t get a lot of time when they’re all together like this and recognizing it as something they value. That’s not to say I’m left out of the conversation—everyone makes an effort to include me, I’m never ignored—but I don’t push myself out there as much as I might otherwise. Judging from our interactions earlier, I’ve already made a good impression, and hopefully being quiet and letting them bond will help solidify my good standing.

The only discord comes over dessert—let me tell you, I have seen the light and will never be eating store-bought cannoli again—when Isaac brings up ROTC. He tells everyone that he’s been talking with a recruiter at his high school, and is strongly considering signing up for ROTC when he graduates.

“No.” Marco sets his silverware down with a clank, and there’s a note of steeliness in his voice that I’ve never heard before. “Absolutely not.”

Across the table, Isaac narrows his eyes. “It’s not really your choice, Marc.”

Marco clenches his jaw so hard I hear it creak. “The military is different now. They’d send you places and make you do things you don’t want to do.”

“I wouldn’t be enlisting!” Isaac puts his napkin down and glares across the table at Marco. “I’d be an officer when I graduated!”

“And then you’d have to order your men to do terrible things!” Marco starts to stand up, pressing his hands down on the table, and, worried, I grab his shoulder and try to push him back down. I know I’m not strong enough to do shit to Marco that he doesn’t want done, but he glances at me, the lines around his eyes soften a little, and he sits back down. “Ike, you saw what the military did to me,” he continues, quieter now, back in control. “If you’re going to do this, would you at least talk to Erwin or Reiner first?”

“Why, so they can back up what you’ll tell them to say?”

I wince, but Marco takes that in stride. He’s obviously much more used to having a little brother than I am. “So you can have other sides of the story. Reiner did ROTC in college, he could at least tell you what to expect.”

Isaac rolls his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders relaxes, and he starts picking at his cannoli again. “You’re not dad,” he informs Marco.

“No, I’m not. But he’d… he’d tell you to get the full story before making a decision too.”

I get the feeling that Marco wanted to say _he’d tell you the same thing I am_ , but then decided to be diplomatic at the last minute. I slide my hand off his shoulder and down his back, giving him an awkward little pat on the way down, and he sighs as he finishes his dessert.

By the time the meal is over, we’re all stuffed to the gills; I’m not entirely sure I can move under my own power for at least a week. Rosa is apparently used to eating like this, or maybe she just burned off a lot of energy making all this food and has recharged, and hops up to make coffee for herself, Ilse, and me, and tea for Marco and Isaac. Isaac bitches a little about being seventeen and old enough for coffee, but Rosa shuts him down and he drinks his tea without any further complaining. I can smell Marco’s tea, and Rosa must buy the good stuff, because it frankly smells better than the coffee.

“Can we go drive now?” Isaac asks as soon as he’s finished his tea.

“Uh…” I look to Marco and Rosa, one eyebrow lifted.

“Jean is going to let you drive his car?” Rosa asks, her question directed towards Isaac but her eyes on me. 

“Sure, we can take her out for a spin.” I turn to Isaac, and I can feel the grin that Eren calls Jean’s Schwarmy Douchebag Look spread onto my face. “You have to wear the driving gloves, though.”

“Whaaaaaat?”

Ah, revenge for loud music is sweet. It’s a light revenge, though, since it got me into Marco’s bed. My grin stretches further. “It’s the rule. No one gets to drive Adelaide without wearing the gloves.”

“It’s true,” Marco chimes in. “The gloves didn’t fit Reiner, so Jean made him wear mittens instead.”

I bump my knee against Marco’s under the table, delighted by how he’s picked up on this. “Reiner’s mittens didn’t fit Bertolt, so he didn’t get to drive at all.”

Marco shakes his head, his voice dropping into the tones used to talk about those who die young and senselessly. “He was really upset about it, but you know what they say… rules are rules.”

“Okay, _fine_!” The Isaac eye roll is a thing of beauty, and I’m totally going to draw it later. Isaac is giving me plenty of chances to observe it in its natural habitat, after all. “I’ll wear the damn gloves!”

“Language, Isaac!” Rosa’s tone is sharp, but she has the same lines around her eyes that Marco does when he’s trying not to laugh.

“Uuuuugh!” Isaac gets up and storms off in a fit of teenage angst, although he takes his dirty dishes with him to the kitchen, which lessens the effect somewhat. There’s a beat of silence around the table, and then we all start giggling.

“It’s very kind of you to take him driving, Jean,” Rosa says once she’s got her giggles under control. “Isaac takes after his father; he loves cars and engines and vehicles.”

I shrug. “He can look under the hood, if he wants. Adelaide’s been modified with a hybrid engine, he might like seeing how it fits in the original chassis.”

“I have no idea what that means, but it sounds very interesting. I’m sure Isaac would like it.”

“Well, then.” Marco stands up and starts gathering plates from both our settings. “Why don’t we help clean up, Mom, and Jean and Isaac can go drive?”

“I come home and end up doing more kitchen stuff than I ever do at school,” Ilse complains, but it’s good-natured, and she starts picking up plates too.

“You should be grateful for your little sister,” Rosa chides, sliding into the kitchen. “She does the work twice as fast as you do.”

I glance at Marco, confused; is there another Bott sibling? He smiles and whispers “Dishwasher” in my ear, and I try not to shiver at the heat of his breath against my earlobe.

~*~

Isaac is waiting for me outside, cocooned in a high school letterman’s jacket and dancing impatiently from foot to foot. I toss him Adelaide’s keys, and he catches them with a flashy underhand move that probably makes all the high school girls (and some of the high school boys) swoon when he does it on the football field.

“Do I _really_ have to wear the gloves?” he asks, his brows drawn down in suspicion. His brows are thicker and heavier than Marco’s, and it looks like he might have a unibrow if he doesn’t keep up with his personal grooming. It makes me wonder if Marco has to tend his brow line to avoid unwanted fuzziness. Maybe he’d look cute with some Frida Kahlo realness.

“Nah, not if you don’t want to.” I glance down at his hands, and they’re bare and red in the cold. “You can if you’re cold, though.”

“I’m not cold.”

“Okay.” Ah, to be young and impervious to the elements. Not that I have a lot of room to talk, though; I should’ve traded in my old leather jacket for something heavier a few weeks ago, and yet here I am, shivering in the wind. It’s gotten colder since this morning, I swear it has, and it feels like snow is blowing in from the plains. “Unlock her and let’s go.”

Isaac fumbles with my key fob a little bit until he finds the right piece, and Adelaide beeps politely as she unlocks. I climb into the passenger side, away from the wind, and Isaac slides into the driver’s seat.

“You’ve got a license, right?” I realize belatedly that I probably should have asked that sooner.

“Learner’s permit,” he answers, and gives me a quick side-eye. “Um, that’s okay, right? You’re technically not family, but you’ve got a license, so…”

“It’s fine.” I’m not up to date on the latest driving license laws, but it’s not like we’re planning an interstate trip here. I figured we’d just drive around the neighborhood a little bit, and there’s hardly any traffic to give Isaac trouble. If conditions change, I’ll just take over and Isaac can navigate. “Just remember that Adelaide is an older car, so she’s probably a lot heavier than what you’re used to. She gets going fast down hills and takes awhile to get up to speed. Once you’re cruising, though… she’s the best car in the world.”

“Can we go on the highway?”

It figures that he’d focus in on that part of what I said. “Maybe. Tell you what, we can try the highway another time, when we’ve got your sister or mom in the car and it’s nice and legal.”

“Okay.” He accepts that as a suitable compromise and turns the ignition switch. Adelaide rumbles to life, and he carefully puts his hands at two and ten o’clock on her steering wheel. “Why does your car have a name?”

“Every great car has a name.” He gives Adelaide the tiniest amount of gas, and she starts to creep forward. “She had the name when I got her, actually. My grandpa gave her to my dad as a graduation gift, and my dad named her after _his_ mom, my grandma.” Not that he actually knew his mom, not really, but he always wanted to, and so named his car after her. I don’t tell Isaac that; no need to muddy the waters with ancient history.

“Man, I wish I could get a car like this for graduating.” Isaac gives her a little more gas, and Adelaide cruises forward smoothly.

“Remember you have to brake earlier than usual, she gets a lot of momentum going,” I warn him, seeing the stop sign at the end of the cul-de-sac. “She’s a nice car, sure, but I’m pretty sure my dad would have rather gotten something else.”

“What could be better than this car?” Isaac brakes early, as instructed, and we slow to a stop at the corner. He looks both ways, checking twice even though there isn’t any traffic, then pulls forward.

“Well, she was a bribe. My grandpa was trying to convince him to break off his engagement to my mom.”

“Whaaaat?” To his credit, Isaac keeps both eyes on the road. “That’s crazy!”

“A little bit, yeah.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this, even Marco doesn’t know this story, but now that I’ve started, I want to tell the whole thing. “My dad was the poor kid from the wrong side of the tracks, and my grandpa wasn’t too fond about the idea of him marrying his only daughter.”

“But they got married anyway?”

“They sure did, after my dad graduated university. They drove Adelaide to their honeymoon.”

“Whoah.” Up ahead, a streetlight is blinking red, and Isaac gets into the turn lane, dutifully switching on the blinker. “I’m surprised they didn’t sell her afterwards. Like, wasn’t your grandpa _pissed_?”

“He wasn’t very happy about it.” According the stories, he was completely livid. “But my mom has a way of getting her own way, you know?”

Another eye roll. “Do I ever.”

“Yeah, I bet you do.” Being raised by Rosa and having Ilse as an older sister, I imagine he does. “It all worked out, though. My grandpa realized my dad wasn’t going away, so he financed the loan for my dad to start his business and directed some contacts he knew his way, things took off after about six months, and no one ever looked back.”

“That’s cool.” Isaac turns Adelaide, and points out something up ahead on the left. “That’s the high school. Go Eagles.”

It’s a smaller, squatty building, much tinier than the high school I went to, but I admire it all the same. “Looks nice.”

“It’s a shithole.” Isaac sighs, sounding almost exactly like Marco, and works his hands on the steering wheel. “I can’t wait to leave.”

“What’re you going to do when you’re done?”

He shrugs. “Don’t know yet. Marc and Ilse knew exactly what they were going to do, but I don’t.”

“That’s okay. You’ve got time to figure it out.”

“That’s why I want to do ROTC, you know?” He glances at me before turning back to the road. “I figure I’ll get to travel a little with the military, maybe figure things out that way.”

It’s not a bad plan, really, but I feel obligated to represent Marco’s interests here. “Can’t you travel without doing the military?”

He snorts. “Sure, if I want to be drowning in debt the rest of my life.”

“Valid point.” This isn’t really my battle, especially since I can see Isaac’s point of view here. “I don’t think you’re going to change your brother’s mind, though.”

“I know.” He sounds forlorn, and sighs again, slumping over the steering wheel. “He doesn’t understand. He _enlisted_ ; I’d be an _officer_. Depending on what kind of degree I got, I could get stationed in, like, Germany or Japan or somewhere safe.”

“Have you told Marco all this?” 

“No. He doesn’t listen. He thinks that just because he got blown up and then had all his problems back home that that’ll happen to me too.” Isaac jumps a little, then turns to look at me fully, slowing Adelaide to a crawl. “You, uh… you know about all that, right?”

I hold up a placating hand. “Yeah, I know. Marco told me.”

“Thank god.” He turns his attention back to the street, picking up speed again. “Can you, you know… explain this stuff to him? He’ll listen to you.”

I don’t answer right away, which Isaac interprets as refusal, and he picks up his pleading. “Look, Marc cares about your opinion, and if you told him all this, he’d _listen_. He doesn’t listen to me, because I’m always going to be his dumb kid brother, but if _you_ told him, and maybe Reiner, and shit, if you can get Erwin on your side, there’s no way he’d say no…”

“Whoah, whoah, slow down there.” I’m glad I didn’t put my hand all the way down, because I need it again to get him to stop. He shuts up immediately, looking at me with eyes like Parvati does when she thinks she’s wasting away from starvation. “First of all, Erwin doesn’t like me very much, so the odds of me getting him on my side are pretty slim.”

“Erwin’s kind of a dick,” Isaac agrees, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.

“Regardless. I can definitely talk to Reiner, and I’ll see if we can gang up on Marco and get your point across, all right? I’m not making any promises, but if we double-team him, he’ll probably at least listen to what we’ve got to say.”

“That would be so great, Jean, thank you!” Now that he has what he wants, Isaac turns into a veritable ball of sunshine, grinning and beaming at me.

“No problem. Now just don’t antagonize him about it until we get a chance to talk to him, okay?”

“Okay! Can I add you on Facebook so you can tell me what’s going on?”

“Sure, go ahead.” Heaven help me, Marco’s little brother wants to see my Facebook. I might have to go back and lock down some incriminating pictures.

~*~

We drive around for another hour or so, and Isaac shows me the rest of Jinae. It’s definitely cute, and would definitely suck to grow up in; there isn’t a whole lot to do, which becomes more and more obvious the further we drive. Isaac finishes the grand tour with the cow tipping field, and asks if I want to go tip some cows tonight. I kind of do, but turn him down, telling him his mom probably wants us to hang out with the family. He groans and rolls his eyes, but doesn’t say anything else about cow tipping as he drives us home.

“Thank you for letting me drive Adelaide,” he says graciously as we climb out of the car after he parks her in front of his house.

“My pleasure.” I shiver as the wind bites through my leather jacket; it is definitely colder than it was before, and I swear I can smell snow in the air. “You’re pretty good at it.”

“Really?” He swells up with pride. “Marc calls me Old Creeping Jesus.”

I stifle a laugh; who knew Marco had that in him? “He’s probably just jealous. Besides, I wouldn’t let you drive her if you drove like a maniac.”

“Marc was a _terrible_ driver,” Isaac confides as we walk up the lawn. “He was always speeding and getting caught.”

“He was?” This is incredible, who knew little siblings were such great sources of information. 

“Yeah. He almost lost his license and Dad had to go talk to the police chief.” Isaac leans close, as though he’s confiding something of great confidence. “Dad and Chief Dok used to go on fishing trips together, before Chief Dok moved to Sina. Dad got Marc out of trouble.”

“That is… amazing.” I grin at Isaac and clap him on the shoulder. “You can practice drive with Adelaide whenever you want.”

“Even on the highway?”

“Even on the highway.”

Isaac struts into the house, chest out and arms waving at his sides, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek again to keep from laughing.

~*~

“Jean, darling!” Rosa calls from the couch, where she’s sitting with Marco. “Come here, I have something to show you!”

“Sure.” I come over, and Marco scoots over so I can sit between them. The couch is big enough for all three of us to sit comfortably, but Marco says close, leaning into me and looking over my shoulder as Rosa plops a giant book on my lap.

“Is this a _photo album_?” I can’t hide the delight in my voice, and it makes Rosa laugh.

“It is,” she tells me as I open it, laying it broad across my lap and hers. “I thought you would like to see the pictures of Marco as a _bambino_.”

“You have no idea.” The first picture in the album is grainy, the colors washed out and yellowed with age, featuring a much younger Rosa holding a tiny scrap of a baby and beaming out at the camera. She looks exhausted but elated at the same time, as does the handsome, dark-haired young man standing beside her. Marco might have inherited Rosa’s face and freckles, but he got his father’s size and width.

“It was such an easy labor,” Rosa tells me, looking fondly at the old picture. “They always say that first babies are supposed to be difficult, that the labor is long, but Marco came right out! I had some cramps, and then water on the floor, and three hours later, a baby!”

“Was he a big baby?” I ask, as Marco groans over his mother’s descriptions.

“Oh no, he was very small! Long, a tall baby, but thin.” She pokes me in the side. “Thin like you! Were you a small baby?”

“No. Not even remotely. I was a little fat boy.”

“You were?” This has caught Marco’s attention. “Really?”

“I was fat for most of my childhood.” I can say that now, now that I’ve slimmed down and gotten hot. “I was roly-poly.”

Marco’s eyes have taken on the flat gleam of lust. “I need to call your mom. I need photographic evidence of this.”

“No!” I shove him, and he falls away, giggling, before bouncing right back and getting close to my side again. “I mean, she’d show you, but no!”

“C’mon, you’re seeing pictures of me as a baby!”

“I’ve seen _one_!”

“There are many more,” Rosa butts in helpfully. “Even ones where Marco is not wearing any clothes.”

“ _Mama_!” Now Marco sounds scandalized. “I thought you took those out.”

Rosa shrugs, and if I’ve ever seen an expression of sorry-not sorry, it’s this one. “I put them back in.”

“Rosa,” I reach across the album and take her hand, worn with work and full of wiry strength, and give it a squeeze, using my best choir boy voice, “I need to see the rest of these pictures.”

“Of course, Jean dear.” We grin at each other, partners in crime, while Marco groans next to me. 

Rosa and her husband were exhaustive chroniclers of their first child’s life. The album is as thick as a phone book, and stuffed full. I see pictures of Marco as a sleepy, drooling infant, the first spray of freckles starting to darken across his nose and cheeks. “Marco inherited those from me,” Rosa explains. “He was three days old when the ones on his nose appeared.”

Marco rubs at the bridge of his nose, at the spot above the tip where five freckles form a straight line. “I’ve had these all my life.”

“They are lovely, _tesoro_ ,” Rosa says warmly. “Jean likes them, don’t you, Jean?”

“Yes.” I agree to that a little too quickly, and direct all my attention at the album, even as I feel Marco lean into me. “Marco’s freckles are great.”

It turns out that Marco was the cutest fucking toddler to ever exist; his parents liked to dress him in onesies with little feet on them—“It was the only way to get him to wear socks”—and he was a happy toddler, captured in countless photos where he was smiling and dragging around brightly colored toys. I don’t normally draw a lot of children, but I want to draw baby Marco, to try and capture his plump cheeks and bright smiles showcasing his two or three teeth, the way he’s almost always photographed with one hand extended, offering a toy car or stuffed animal to whoever is taking the picture.

And he grows as I turn the pages, turning from a smiling toddler to a smiling child, beaming at the camera in a shirt and tie for his first day of kindergarten. “I had a Spiderman backpack,” Marco tells me, pointing out the red webbing design on the bag’s straps. “I felt so cool with that bag.”

“Spiderman’s pretty cool,” I agree, “but I always liked the X-Men better.”

I turn the next page in the album, and a startlingly familiar face jumps out at me.

“Hey, that’s Reiner!”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, it is!” Marco leans in close, our heads nearly touching, as we study the picture on the page. Marco is in a sandbox, an upside down bucket between his legs and his face composed in a look on intense concentration as he lifts it, and there’s an unmistakable blond child next to him, watching with all due scrutiny. Reiner’s a lot smaller, just like Marco, but his basic build hasn’t changed a whole lot; he’s built like a Mack truck now, and he was incredibly solid back then too. “I forgot that was in here. Yeah, we went to kindergarten together, before we moved to Jinae.”

“Wow. Small world.” The next few pages are pictures of Marco and Reiner as kindergarteners, playing together, holding guinea pigs, and a Halloween picture where Marco is dressed as Spiderman and Reiner is, inexplicably, dressed as a cow.

Marco starts laughing when he sees that one and digs his phone out of his pocket. “Hold on, I need to take a picture of that and send it to Bertolt, he’ll get a kick out of it.”

“Yeah, I’ll send one to Reiner.” Rosa waits patiently while we both take a picture, and I send mine to Reiner with the message **30 pounds of beef on the hoof, huh?**

We’ve gotten as far as Marco’s elementary school days in the Boy Scouts before we get any response.

**Bertolt H.: You’re both so cute! Thank you for sharing!**

**Reiner Zacharius: tell Marco he’s dead to me now**

“Reiner says you’re dead to him.”

“Awww.” Marco pulls a face, but I can see the way his eyes are glinting and know that he’s enjoying himself. “And after such a long friendship, too.”

**Reiner Zacharius: oh my god  
** **Reiner Zacharius: Bert keeps talking about how cute it is  
** **Reiner Zacharius: my dad is getting out the photo albums  
**Reiner Zacharius: DOES MARCO HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT HE’S WROUGHT** **

**Jean Kirschstein: simmer your tits, bro  
Jean Kirschstein: you make an adorable cow**

**Reiner Zacharius: I hate you both so much right now  
Reiner Zacharius: what if you just turned Bert into a furry**

**Jean Kirschstein: then you get to dress up like a wild wolf man and growl at him?**

**Reiner Zacharius: hmm, valid point  
Reiner Zacharius: okay, tell Marco he’s back in my good graces**

“Reiner’s not mad anymore,” I tell Marco, slipping my phone back in my pocket.

“Good. He gave me a pet guinea pig when I was a little guy, and that’s a bond that can’t be broken.”

We keep flipping through the album, and even Marco’s awkward puberty kid phase was still cute, or maybe I’m just biased. He managed to escape the ravages of teenaged acne—lucky bastard, I still have some scars on my shoulders and jawline from my own bout—and even when he was going through his growth spurt and nothing fit together right, he still managed to resemble an adorable puppy with overgrown feet and hands. It isn’t until we turn a page and find his junior year class picture that I’m stunned into silence.

He was gorgeous. He still is, but it’s pretty clear that that was the year when everything started to fit together right and the man he would become started to peek through.

“He was very handsome that year, wasn’t he, Jean?” Rosa asks, her voice full of affection, and all I can do is nod stupidly.

“Hey, are you saying I’m not handsome now?” Marco demands.

“Oh yes, you are handsome now, _tesoro_ , but this was the first time when you started to look like a man instead of a boy.” Rosa touches the image, her fingers ghosting over the lines of Marco’s smiling face, and she lingers a little over his lips, over his wide, white smile. “You looked like your father did when he was the same age.”

I turn the page. I have to, or I’m going to keep staring at young, beautiful Marco and probably start drooling and look like a total pedophile. If I think the next page is going to be any better, I’m completely wrong. If anything, it’s worse.

It’s a full-page image of Marco, dressed in full Phantom of the Opera garb, rowing a boat made of cardboard across a high school stage while a teenaged girl gazes up at him. Whoever took the picture knew what they were doing, it’s beautifully composed, and I can’t get over the picture of Marco in 18th century French clothing.

“I… I didn’t know you did musical theater,” I finally manage, and both Marco and Rosa laugh.

“You did not know that Marco used to sing?” Rosa asks me. “He was the Phantom, and then the next year he was Curly from Oklahoma!” She sniffs. “A nonsense play, that one, but Marco did a fine job.”  
 That means that somewhere else in the album there’s a picture of Marco dressed like a cowboy, and I’m going to find it. But first, I need to spend more time admiring this Phantom picture.

“Marco was a great Phantom,” Ilse chimes in from across the room, where she’s been playing with her phone and watching us look at the album. “I used to help him practice by singing Christine’s parts, and it’s what made me love singing and the theater.”

“You were always better than I was, Ilse,” Marco tells her graciously, and she nods. She obviously is, if she’s studying it in university now.

“I did some theater too, back in the day,” I tell them, and Marco’s eyebrows shoot up under his bangs with that revelation.

“You did? What did you play? Why’d you stop?”

“Of course I did. I mean, I pretty much didn’t have a choice, what with my mom being a singer and everything. She always wanted to see me play Jean Valjean.” I grin, a little ruefully, and gesture at my face. “Unfortunately, always looked a little too criminal to pull it off. I _did_ get to be in Les Mis once, though.”

“What part?” Ilse demands, and I raise an eyebrow at her.

“Guess.”

She narrows her eyes, considering, then brightens up. “Monsieur Thenardier.”

“Right in one!” I pop a finger gun in her direction, and she laughs.

“Oh god, I would’ve loved to have seen that!”

“Me too,” Marco adds, “although I think you could’ve pulled off Jean Valjean.”

“My high school choir director had enough problems already, with someone named Jean playing a part that wasn’t Jean Valjean.” I shake my head at the memory. “She eventually gave up and just called me Jay for the entirety of the run.”

“Marco,” Ilse breaks in, her voice serious. “You said Jean has a piano, right?”

“Yes, he does.” He shoots me a sidelong smile. “He’s kind enough to let me practice on it whenever I want, too.”

“Sooooo…” She looks pointedly at the upright piano in a corner of the living room. “Want to get the band back together?”

“Ilse, I don’t know…”

“Marco, please? I haven’t sang at all in two days and I can feel my vocal cords tightening up! C’mon, please? We could do Phantom? You love Phantom!”

“It’s true,” he admits, “I do love Phantom.” He turns to look at me, and there’s something sad in his smile, the kind of look you get when you’re remembering things from long ago, that you’ll never get back. “Would you mind if we took a break from this, Jean?”

“Not at all.” I close the album and hand it back to Rosa. “You know I like hearing you play.”

“Me, too, _tesoro_ ,” Rosa adds, and there’s something in her voice, an undercurrent of excitement and joy that seems out of place with what’s happening, and she clutches the album to her chest. “Please, play Phantom with your sister.”

“Okay, okay.” Marco gets up and moves to take a seat at the piano, and Ilse bounces up, standing next to the piano and practically vibrating with excitement. They mess around for a few minutes, Marco playing scales and Ilse matching them with her voice, and it’s immediately clear that she’s got a rare vocal talent; her voice is clear and crisp, vibrating in the air long after she stops singing, and it’s enough to roust Isaac from his bedroom lair and get him to come downstairs to join us.

“Think of Me?” she asks, once they’re both warmed up.

“Sure,” Marco says, sounding happier about the whole situation now, and gets his hands in the right spot, starting the opening chords.

Ilse has a magnificent voice, and growing up with my mom and all her singer friends, I know voices. It’s powerful and elegant, and yet there’s an air of vulnerability to it too, something that can’t be taught, something that has to be learned through life. I’m mesmerized, both by her voice and the sight of Marco playing the piano, the way he leans over the keys and how his hands move so much better than they did just six weeks ago. He doesn’t miss a note, and their audience of three is completely captivated… until they get to the part where Raoul sings, and Marco doesn’t do the male voice.  
 It sounds strange, not hearing someone sing in this part, and I sit up straight in my seat, suck in a deep breath, and belt out the rest of the lines.

“ _How young and innocent we were!_  
She may not remember me,  
But I remember her.”

Ilse’s eyes go wide with first surprise and then pleasure when I start singing, and she nearly misses her next cue. It’s all worth it, though, for the way Marco twists on the piano bench and looks back at me, and the way he beams as he keeps playing.

Everyone waits until Ilse is done, until she’s scaled up with her voice to the soaring crescendo of the song, before the room dissolves into babbling.

“Jean, _caro_ , you have such a lovely voice!”

“Damn, Jean, you were holding out on us!”

“Now you’ve gone and done it, they’re going to ask you to sing with them all the time now.”

“Jean,” Marco says, and he’s the only one I pay attention to, “I’ve never heard you sing like that.”

I shrug, a little embarrassed. “Sorry, I’m not as good as Ilse.”

“No, you were great! I just… I didn’t know you could sing like that.”

“Well,” I point out, grinning cheekily at him, “in all fairness, you’ve only ever heard me sing when we’re driving somewhere in the car.”

Marco has to concede that point, and that gives Rosa time to pounce. “Jean, did you play Raoul before?”

“No. Criminal face, remember? But, uh…” I rub my hand on the back of my neck, “I had a huge crush on the girl who played Christine, so I learned Raoul’s parts so I could help her practice.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then everyone bursts into laughter.

“It’s okay, Jean,” Marco tells me, once he’s gotten control of himself. “I did the same thing. I had the biggest crush on the guy playing Raoul, so I know all of Christine’s parts.”

“You children.” Rosa shakes her head.

“C’mon, Marco,” Ilse announces, bouncing from foot to foot. “Phantom of the Opera. Let’s go.”

Without another word, Marco starts pounding out the opening chords, and I can tell that he’s played this on stage before; he instantly becomes more animated, tossing his head back and moving his shoulders like he’s trying to make a cape ripple behind him. It’s mesmerizing to watch, and I hardly notice when Ilse starts singing. When Marco does, though… I’ve only ever heard him sing in the car, when we’re fooling around and being silly. This is something different. This is something he’s practiced, something he’s learned, something where he’s thought about every gesture and how others will see it, and I’m not watching Marco. I’m watching the Phantom of the Opera. 

_”Sing once again with me, our strange duet,  
My power over you, grows stronger yet…”_

_"He’s here, the Phantom of the Opera…”_

Their voices blend and meld together, and I have goosebumps up and down my arms. I’ve seen Phantom before, done by professionals with enormous budgets for costuming and sets, but I’ve never felt the music the way I do right now, in this cozy living room with a battered, out of tune upright piano and two amateurs singing it. Rosa takes hold of my hand at some point, and we hold onto each other for dear life.

It doesn’t happen until the very end, when Ilse is working her way up the scale, towards the elusive top note that only the best can capture. Marco’s right hand slips, and he misses a few notes. He keeps going, recovering, but now I’m aware of it, and I can hear how his hand is getting sloppy, how he’s missing things, and suddenly there’s tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before, tightening and drawing them down as he concentrates, as he tries to make his hand do what it once knew.

They finish, with Ilse capturing and holding that top note, holding it so well that it makes all the glasses in the kitchen cabinet chatter against each other, and then Rosa and I let go of each other to erupt in applause. Isaac joins in, and Ilse bows, her face flushed and eyes dancing. Marco stays hunched over the keyboard, working his right hand opened and closed, and I know he’s scowling down at it, furious for how it’s betrayed him.

“And I’m done!” Ilse announces, flopping down on the couch beside Isaac. “I’m not going to top that, so I’m going to quit while I’m ahead.”

Marco doesn’t get up right away, and Rosa ventures a question. “Music of the Night, _tesoro_?”

He sighs, and I hate the way he sounds, so desolate and closed off from what he loves. “I don’t know, _Mama_ , I’m not sure I can…”

“Play the bass line?” I stand up so fast I make Rosa jump, and before I can consider whether this is a good idea or not, I’m moving to the piano bench. Marco looks up at me, his eyes wide and with the faintest glimmer of hope in them, and that’s it, I’m decided. I come around to the front of the bench, and Marco moves over to make room for me, the way we’ve done before when he’s been practicing and his hand started to cramp up. I sit beside him, and he leans against me, just for a moment, just long enough to whisper “Thank you,” quiet enough that only I hear. I crack my knuckles a few times, rest my left hand on my thigh, and put my right hand over the keys.

“Are you ready?” I ask, and when Marco nods, I start playing.

The melody to Music of the Night isn’t particularly hard—or maybe I’ve just played it so many times that it’s etched into my brain. Either way, it’s the singing that makes this song, and I’m watching out of the corner of my eye when Marco opens his mouth and starts singing.

And it’s perfect. His voice is pitched just right, and while he’s not the most amazing male vocalist I’ve ever heard, he puts so much emotion into every word that he makes up for it. I’m glad I know the piece so well, because my hand goes into autopilot and I’m able to turn around and watch him. He keeps his eyes closed through most of it, bowing low over the keyboard, his eyelashes casting sooty shadows on his cheeks and his lips caressing the words as they leave his throat. I can just imagine how he made everyone fall in love with him when he sang this in high school, how there wasn’t a single heart in the audience that wasn’t pounding by the time he was done.

_”Help me make… the music of the… night…”_

He draws the last note out, beautiful and pure, and I almost forget to play the last few notes, which are all with the right hand. I watch him, and I know I could never capture him on paper, the way he looks right now; I could draw every day for the rest of my life, and I’d never make him look like he does right now, with his eyes closed and his head back and his throat drawn taut. Then he opens his eyes, and it’s like he can see into my soul, like he can see everything I am and everything I ever will be, and he likes it because it makes him smile, tender and sweet, and I’m lost. I thought I was lost before, but I had no idea. I had no idea how lost I could become, how deep I could fall into his eyes.

He licks his lips, and my heart jogs, thinking he might be going for a kiss. Instead, he opens his mouth and asks “So you know all the Raoul parts?”

I nod, not trusting my voice.

He smiles a little, shy and questioning, like he still thinks I could refuse him anything. “And I know the Christine ones… All I Ask of You?”

I gape at him, unbelieving. The most romantic song of all time, and he wants to sing it with me? I must look dumbfounded, because he starts backpedaling. “I mean, if you don’t want to, that’s fine, I just thought…”

“No,” I interrupt, finding my voice again. “No, we can sing it.”

“Are you sure?” He’s so damn considerate.

“Yeah.” I clear my throat and flex my hand, laying it on the keys. I try to give him a cocky grin, but I don’t know how well I succeed. “You ready?”

“Yes.” He puts his hand in the right spot, and nods to me. “Let’s go.”

I nod, clear my throat one more time, and start singing.

_”No more talk of darkness,  
Forget these wide-eyed fears…”_

The music swells around us, the beat up old piano sounding like a complete orchestra, and while I’m sure I sound uncertain and nervous at first, my voice gains strength with every syllable. I know this song, I can do this, I’m not going to screw this up for Marco and his family. Especially not when it’s his turn, and he sings Christine’s part like he was born to sing it, his voice pure and carrying.

_”Say you’ll love me every waking moment,  
Turn my head with talk of summer time…”_

For a moment, I’m jealous of that long-ago high school boy, the one playing Raoul who used to practice this with Marco, but then it washes away, swept off with the moving chords. That boy, whoever he is, is in the past. This is now, and I don’t think I’ve ever sung as beautifully as I am right now.

_”Then say you’ll share with me one love, one lifetime,_  
Let me lead you from your solitude,  
Say you need me with you here, beside you.  
Anywhere you go, let me go too…  
Marco, that’s all I ask of you…” 

Marco stutters a little in the middle of the song, and my left hand leaps off my thigh, ready to take over if he’s having trouble. Whatever it is, it smoothes itself out, and if anything, his voice grows stronger, carrying us through to the end of the song.

_”Anywhere you go, let me go too.  
Love me, that’s all I ask of you…”_

The final notes die away, and the room grows quiet. I remember, for the first time, that we have an audience when Isaac clears his throat and says, “Called it.”

“Isaac!”

Marco’s family starts fussing behind us, but all my attention is on him. He has his eyes closed, and is breathing deep through his nose, taking heavy yoga breaths. I’m a little out of breath too, but not enough to take yoga breaths, and suddenly I’m worried about him. Did we overdo it? Was this too much for him, are his hands hurting now?

“Marco,” I say under my breath, nudging him with my shoulder, “are you okay?”

He opens his eyes then, and I sit back, startled by what I see. He looks… blank. “Jean, will you come with me for a minute?” he asks, as he pushes back from the piano and stands up.

“Uh, yeah, of course, let me just…” Marco takes my arm and helps me to my feet, and I stagger upright.

“Excuse us for a minute,” he says to his family, and hustles me out of the living room, through the kitchen and out the back door into a back yard that I haven’t seen yet.

It’s gotten colder, the sky darkening and the wind whipping between the suburban houses, and I start shivering almost immediately. “Marco, it’s cold out here, let’s go back inside…”

“You said my name.”

“What?” I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“My name.” He closes his eyes, breathes deep, and then opens them, looking down at me, and I’ve never been so aware of the difference in our heights. “You said my name during the song. Instead of Christine’s.”

“I did?” I stare at him, both shocked and embarrassed by my slip. “Shit, Marco, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that…”

“I’m not mad.”

“You’re not?” He looks mad. He looks mad as hell, and I shrink back a little. He sees that, and suddenly all the tension floods out of his body, all the anger, and he reaches up to rub at his face.

“No, I’m not.” He stays quiet then, his hand over his eyes, for so long that I get some of my nerve back, and I take a step closer.

“So…”

“So I’m an idiot.” He drops his hand and meets my eyes, and my heart jogs in my chest at the look on his face. He’s looking at me the way he looks at his cats, the way he looks at his family, the way he looks at Bertolt when Bertolt is upset about something and needs support. He’s looking at me like I’m something precious to him, like I’m someone that matters in his world, and I suddenly forget how to breathe.

“Jean,” he starts, and god, just my name on his lips is magical, “I’m a mess. I have PTSD and I’m an addict, and I haven’t even graduated university yet and I’m twenty-seven years old.”

Before he can keep going, I interrupt him, because I hate hearing him rag on himself like this. “I barely know how to take care of myself and survived on take-out before I met you.”

That makes him smile, but it doesn’t make him stop. “I only have one eye and I can’t ever drive us anywhere.”

“I’m going to quit my job soon and I have no idea what I’ll do afterwards.” It’s not until I’ve said it that I realize it’s true.

Marco takes it in stride, though, which makes it more real than just saying it to myself. “My shoulders are all scarred up.”

“I’ve had the same haircut since high school.”

“I can’t ever have a beer or a drink with you.”

“I’ve never really gotten over my dad’s death and should probably spend some time unpacking that.”

With every sentence, every proclamation of how broken we are, we get closer and closer together, until we’re chest to chest, almost touching, and I can feel the heat pouring off his body.

“Jean,” he says, licking his lips, and he reaches out, puts a hand on my shoulder. “Do you really want to be with me?”

“ _Yes_.” It should be embarrassing, how quickly I answer that, but I’m not embarrassed at all. “I’ve wanted to be with you since the first time I saw you, and I’ve only wanted to be with you more, the longer I’ve gotten to know you.”

He closes his eyes in one long blink, and when he opens them again, they’re both shining, reflecting stars back at me, and I catch a glimpse of that boy I saw in the pictures, the one who played with guinea pigs and trooped around with the Boy Scouts and wore a half-mask to play the Phantom of the Opera. Marco takes another step closer and slides his hand from my shoulder to my face, cupping it in his hand, and ducks his head a little. My hands flutter up of their own accord and settle on his hips.

“I think I’m ready, then,” he breathes, and before I can parse together what he means, he’s bending down and kissing me.

His kiss is so light at first, so gentle and nearly chaste, that I have a split second of pure fear run through me. What if, after everything, there’s no spark? What if we have no chemistry together? But then his hand moves to the back of my head, threading through my hair and pulling me close, and my hands move from his hips to around his neck, looping there like we were designed to fit together, and I melt against him. His other arm loops around my waist, crushing me up close to him, and I stand on my tiptoes to push forward, pulling him down with both arms to get him closer to me. If I could, I’d meld us both together, just so we’d never have to let go.

His mouth is hot against mine, his lips every bit as soft as I imagined they’d be, and I can feel fire racing through my chest, spreading out to every one of my extremities. I’ve been kissed before, but I’ve never been kissed like this, and I’ll be damned if one of my feet doesn’t spontaneously lift into the air, like I’m a Disney princess or something. No one has ever kissed me so well that it’s made me lift one foot into the air, and as Marco presses down on me, I arch my back, knowing that he won’t let me fall backwards.

He doesn’t, and when we finally have to come up for air, we’re both gasping and panting, our cheeks red with both cold and exhilaration. Marco drops his hand to my shoulders, holding me close to him, and I have no complaints about that, even tightening my arms around his neck and stretching up for another kiss. Our second kiss is a little less frenzied, a little slower, but sweeter too, like it’s a new beginning, the start of something real. It lasts longer, and when we come apart, I have a sudden attack of nerves and bury my face in the side of his neck, breathing the scent of him in and feeling pure, uncomplicated happiness for the first time in a long time.

He chuckles, the sound breathless, and strokes his hand down my back. “Are you cold?”

“A little.” I pick my head up and look at him, and sometime during our kiss, it started to snow. His hair is peppered with white, and I reach up to brush it away. He closes his eyes, leaning into my hand on his head before turning to kiss my palm, and the wind picks up, swirling fat, fluffy flakes all around us.

“Let’s go inside.” He doesn’t move, unwilling to let go of me, which is fine by me. “Do you want to share a bed tonight?”

“ _Yes_.” I stretch up and kiss his chin. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you to ask that?”

“You’ve been very patient,” he agrees, and tilts his head so my chin kiss ends up being a peck on the lips. “Thank you for that.”

“You’re worth waiting for.”

He hums, like he doesn’t quite agree but doesn’t know how to express it, and decides to nuzzle at my ear inside. “I can’t make love to you tonight. Not in my mom’s house.”

“I understand. But we can cuddle, right?”

He chuckles again, and nips at my earlobe in a way that makes my stomach drop out of my body with anticipation. “I’m going to be doing that all night.”

“Good.” I’d like to stay out here longer, in our own little world, but then the wind blows past us again, making me shiver violently.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Marco says, and if he called me sweetheart for the rest of our lives, I’d never get tired of it, “let’s get you inside.” He lets me go then, but takes my hand, and I follow him back into the house.

We go into the living room first, where everyone is still sitting quietly, and stop talking in that way that means they were talking about you when we enter the room. Three sets of brown eyes turn to us, and I’m struck by sudden shyness, half-ducking behind Marco and letting him deal with his family.

He takes a deep breath. “Mom, Jean is going to be staying in my room tonight, okay?”

“Of course, _tesoro_ ,” she answers, with no hesitation. “You remember the rules, yes?”

“Yes, _Mama_.” He squeezes my hand, and pulls me forward a little. “Jean and I… we’re together now. Officially.”

 Isaac beats everyone to the punch. “ _Gaaaaaaaaaay._ ”

Rosa and Ilse turn on him in horror, but Marco and I look at each other, then both start laughing. It gives me the courage to step up beside him, and he puts his arm around my shoulders, drawing me in against his side. 

“Gay as hell, bro,” he tells Isaac, who grins and gives both of us a thumbs-up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you listening to Andrew Lloyd Webber yet?
> 
> So I got it done for you! You can thank my work schedule this week and how much slacking I've been able to do. I hope you all enjoyed it, and there will probably be two more chapters after and then Namaste will be done (except for the one-shots and the inevitable sequel... c'mon, you all want to know the story behind Kindergarten Reiner and his cow costume, don't you? you know you do).
> 
> I also read every comment and note I get on this fic, but it's taking me awhile to answer all of them. I will, I promise! Just please be patient while I get through them.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now official.

Rosa insists on making some hot chocolate, and it’s another hour before Marco and I can escape upstairs. The change in Marco is noticeable—as we sat on the couch, sipping hot chocolate, he’d kept his arm linked through mine, his ankle hooked around my calf. It’s almost as though all those little touches from the last two months had just been foreplay, and now that he has permission to touch me, he can’t keep his hands to himself. Not that I’m complaining; I feel like a cat in a sunbeam, soaking up everything he’s willing to give me. No one touches me as much as Marco does, and I hadn’t even realized how desperately I needed it.

We finally pull ourselves away, thanks to Ilse yawning loudly and announcing that we should all turn in—and I follow Marco up the stairs to his old room. He holds my hand all the way up the stairs, like he’s afraid I might get lost on the journey, and I think I could get used to this kind of treatment. Especially when he closes the door behind us and immediately pushes me up against it, cupping my face in his hands and kissing me like we’ve been apart for years. I reach up and tangle my hands in his hair—smooth as silk, like liquid between my fingers—and lose myself in him.

The kiss doesn’t last nearly long enough; Marco breaks it off and rests his forehead against mine, panting a little. “This is going to be so hard,” he breathes, his voice rough and low.

“What… what rules are we not going to break?” I ask him, trying my hardest not to roll my hips forward and rub our groins together.

He laughs a little, breathy and sweet, and strokes his thumb across my cheekbone. “No smoking in the house, no cappuccinos after 11 AM, and no sex under her roof unless you’re married.”

“One… one of those rules doesn’t fit the other ones.”

He laughs again, letting go of my face to brace himself against the door. It’s funny, how you can spend so much time with a person and never realize exactly how much broader and heavier than you they are. When he’s this close, he feels practically Bertolt-sized. “You have no idea how seriously Italians take their coffee.”

“Mmmmm.” I drop my hands down to his shoulders, casually and shamelessly groping at the thick, powerful muscles there. I catch a glimpse of a smirk on Marco’s face, and then he flexes, making his yoga muscles bulge, and my knees go weak.

“Okay,” he says, his voice full of regret, and steps back, out of my reach. “Is your bag still in Isaac’s room?”

“I didn’t move it.” I watch him, eager to get through changing and into his childhood bed, pressed against each other for the rest of the night.

Marco considers, then shakes his head. “I’m not going to go get it.”

“Not up for the hassle?” My afternoon drive with Isaac taught me all I need to know to predict how that little adventure would end up.

“Nope.” Marco turns to his closet and starts rifling through it. “Fortunately, my mom never throws anything away. You can wear some of my stuff, and I’ve got an extra toothbrush in the bathroom.”

“You have your own bathroom?”

“Perks of being the oldest.” He tosses me a pair of faded plaid pajama pants and a long-sleeved t-shirt. Jinae Eagles again, it seems. I catch them out of the air, and we stare at each other for a moment, caught in uncertainty.

“Uh…” Marco looks down, his lips curving into the smile that I know means he’s a little embarrassed. “Do you… want me to leave so you can change?”

“No.” That came out a little too quick, and now I’m the one looking down. Oh well, at least we’re being embarrassed together. “I mean, it doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you?”

Marco doesn’t answer right away, and when I look up, he’s chewing on his lower lip. _Does_ it bother him? He can’t possibly be shy, he’s way too ripped and beautiful to be shy about his body!

“I… I have a lot of scars. On my shoulder,” he finally says. “They’re… not very pretty.”

The look on his face breaks my heart; he looks like he’s afraid I’m going to turn around and walk out of the room, get in Adelaide and drive away, leaving him here alone. I cross the room, shifting my borrowed nightwear to one hand as I do, and when I’m close enough, reach up and cup my hand behind his neck. “You’re full of shit.” His eyes widen in surprise at that, but he’s paying attention to me now, so I plow on. “They’re on _you_ , and you’re beautiful, so who cares what anyone else thinks?”

He glances away, maybe hoping I won’t notice how his eyes start to water at that, then envelopes me in a hug, pressing his face into the side of my neck. “Thank you.”

I don’t say anything until he lets me go, and then I grin up at him. “Besides, you haven’t seen me with my shirt off yet. Who knows what horrible things I’m hiding under here?”

He snickers and gives his eyes a clandestine wipe with one hand. “That’s one of the reasons I like you so much, Jean.”

“Because of the horrible things under my shirt?”

“Because you make me laugh,” he says simply, and kisses the tip of my nose. 

I have nothing to say to that, and he steps back, taking a deep breath. “Okay,” he says, more to himself than to me. “I knew this was coming. I… I can do this.” He turns around, his back facing me, and before I can tell him to stop, that we can wait, he doesn't have to do this now, Marco reaches down and pulls his sweater and shirt up and over his head.

I look at his left shoulder first, and it’s glorious, strong and finely shaped, covered in freckles, muscles moving under his skin as he shifts back and forth from foot to foot. My eyes travel along the expanse of his shoulders, and they’re so broad they look like they could carry the world. And then I see his scars, the spots where the skin puckers inward, where the freckles disappear and the skin changes color, turning dark and angry-looking, like the wounds haven’t healed completely. They’re the worst on the top of his shoulder, and I realize that this is the first time I’ve seen his upper arms; Marco always wears shirts with sleeves that come at least to his elbows, and the one time he was wearing a tank top, he covered his shoulder as soon as he realized I was there.

I take a step closer, and Marco tenses up. “Can I touch it?” I ask, and I wait until he nods before I reach out. The scars are smooth under my fingertips, cooler than the rest of his skin, and I trace the edges of them, where they peter out along his shoulder blade, forming a graceful, parabolic curve. A thought flits through my head— _they’re backwards, they should be in the middle_ —but it’s gone before I can make sense of it, and I wrap my arm around Marco’s waist, leaning in and kissing the back of his neck, his scars cool against my chest.

“Definitely full of shit.”

He laughs then, the sound bright with relief, and leans against me, his hands coming up to hold mine. We stay like this for a few minutes, just swaying on our feet, my arms around his waist and his hands over mine, until Marco clears his throat and straightens up.

“We’re never getting to bed at this rate.”

I giggle. “Lies.” I start tugging on his waist, and he lets me manhandle him back to the bed, lets me toss him down on it and climb on top, straddling his waist. The scars on his shoulder don’t extend past the edges of his collarbone, and if I thought his back was nice… well, his chest is something to sing praises about. I’m delighted to discover that he’s covered with freckles all the way down, covered in freckles and boldly colored tattoos, and that he has a dark line of hair that starts at his navel and runs down into his khakis. The Nintendo Zapper inked on his hip and abdomen looks like it’s pointing directly at his crotch, like it’s deliberately trying to draw my eyes towards that line of hair, and that’s either brilliant or remarkably cruel tattoo design. It’s a line I want to explore immediately, that I want to taste under my tongue, but fair is fair, and I strip my shirt and sweater off and toss them aside.

Marco’s eyes go wide as he looks me over, and when he touches me, his hands settle immediately around my waist. “God, Jean,” he breathes, and he looks practically worshipful, “your _waist_ … it’s so narrow…”

I squirm a little on top of him; somehow, he’s managed to zero in on my one feature that I’m still not entirely okay with. “You don’t think it’s too girly?”

“ _No_!” He spreads his hands out, warm and rough-palmed but so very gentle, and tries to get them all the way around my waist. He fails, but not by much. “It’s not girly at all, it’s super, _super_ hot…”

I shift again, and this time, I bump up against something behind me, something hard and insistent, and Marco must not be lying, he must really like my waist, and I smile down at him. “See? Horrible things.”

“Amazing things,” he corrects, and I lean forward for another kiss. Better to get myself off that dick, and away from temptation. I like Rosa too much to immediately break all her rules and defile her son, as much as I might like to. Besides, I know damn well that I’m a noisy fucker when I’m getting laid, and I don’t want to be rocking the house when Marco’s family can hear.

Fortunately for both of us, Marco is content to kiss for awhile and let things wind down, although he keeps his hands on my waist, and when we’re both tired and drunk on each other, I kiss the roses under his collarbone and the edges of his scar before resting my head on his chest. He moves one hand to my back, tracing his fingertips up and down my spine, and I listen to his heart beating, slow and steady under my ear.

“Jean,” he says after awhile, his voice soft and slurring a little, “we need to brush our teeth before I fall asleep.”

Falling asleep with grungy teeth doesn’t sound like the worst thing in the world, but I sigh and roll off him, landing with my back against the wall. “You go first, sleepy,” I tell him, and brush his hair out of his eyes. He smiles, grateful, before getting up and slouching to the little bathroom that I hadn’t noticed before and closing the door behind him.

While he’s gone, I change into my borrowed pjs, figuring it wouldn’t be a good idea to tempt the fate anymore today, and I’m sitting cross-legged on the bed, waiting for him, when he comes back. I’m relieved to see that he’s put clothes on too, and he gives me a droopy smile as he hands me a toothbrush, still in the package.

“Just through that door,” he says, and steals a quick kiss when I stand up.

I do my thing in the bathroom as quick as I can, while still being thorough—I have a boyfriend now, a _boyfriend_ , and there are certain hygiene standards which must be upheld—and smirk at the Christina Aguilera sticker on the corner of the mirror. When I come back out, Marco has gotten under the covers, and holds them open for me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything as inviting in my life, and I dive in next to him. He tucks the blankets in around me, fussing and making a sweet little nest for us, and I press my back to his chest. We fit together like we were made to, and Marco wraps his arm around my waist before tucking his face into the back of my neck.

“Goodnight, Jean,” he breathes, and I find his hand and squeeze it, already starting to slip into sleep myself, feeling more safe and content than I’ve felt in years.

“Goodnight, Marco.”

~*~

I only wake up once during the night, which is kind of unusual. I’m an active sleeper most of the time, moving around the bed and flailing my arms and legs. It used to drive Hitch nuts.

I wake up because my arm is cold, and something is tickling my forehead. I brush it away, but it keeps coming back, and I finally give up and crack one eye, only to get a fluffy white tail right in it.

Biting back a curse, I prop myself up on my elbow and rub the cat hair out of my eye. A cat tail in the face is a surprisingly familiar experience in my life these days, but waking up next to a warm, slumbering man is not. I blink down at Marco as he swims into focus, not believing what I’m seeing at first. And then it all floods back to me, and heat lights up my chest and I feel myself smiling in the dark, huge and ridiculous. This is my man now, _mine_ , and he looks like an angel while he sleeps. Sometime during the night, Marco rolled onto his back and I turned over to face him, and I’d been sleeping with my head on his shoulder and his arm around me. I know this because Marco has a wet spot on his shirt, and I wipe the drool off my chin.

Snowball got back in here at some point too, and he’s curled in a ball next to Marco’s other shoulder, his long tail draped over Marco’s throat and swishing back and forth. The cat opens one rheumy eye and looks at me, then decides I’m not worth his time and goes back to sleep. The tail stops moving, and ends with its tip curled against Marco’s chin.

I tuck myself back down at his side, pulling the blankets up and over my shoulder, and Marco tightens his arm around me when I put my head on his shoulder. I take a deep, contented breath and close my eyes, resting my hand on Marco’s chest so I can feel his heart beat, and fall asleep again almost at once.

~*~

When I wake up again, thin morning light is coming in through the window. It feels early, like the rest of the world hasn’t started to stir yet, and the house is quiet around us. The only sounds in the room are Marco, snoring softly, his mouth partially open, and Snowball, migrated to Marco’s belly and rising and falling every time he breathes, purring in a rusty rasp to himself. We’re still entwined, Marco’s arm still around me and my head still on his shoulder, and I wonder if I’ve managed to completely put his arm to sleep yet. I shift, propping up on my elbow again, and look down at him.

He looks younger in the early sunlight, the lines and worries that haunt his features erased, washed away with a night’s rest. His hair, I notice with amusement, is sticking up all over the place, a terrific mess of cowlicks, and tempted though I am to smooth it out, I leave it alone. It’s cute, for one thing, and I also don’t want to wake him. Not yet. Not while he’s sleeping so peacefully.

As I count the freckles on his cheeks—it’s not creepy, he’s my boyfriend now, I can do this! and besides, it’s for artistic purposes—I notice something I’ve never seen before. The skin around his right eye, the false one, is a darker shade than the rest of his face, but the pattern on it is… weird. It looks smeared, almost, like he has some kind of film there, and as I lean in closer, I see that his eyelid on that side is covered with yellow gunk, like his eye socket was leaking during the night and sealed his eye shut.

It worries me, but Marco knows more about his eye than I do, and I don’t want to wake him for something that might be nothing. It obviously doesn’t hurt and isn’t bothering him, not when he’s sleeping this well, so I leave him be. Rather than wake him, I put my head back down on his shoulder and listen to the rumble of him breathing and the slow beat of his heart. I don’t know why, but those sounds are deeply comforting to me, and they lull me into a kind of trance, peaceful and content.

At least, they do until the scent of coffee wafts up the stairs.

 _Coffee_. Marco doesn’t drink it, and since we’ve been spending so much time together, I haven’t been drinking it either. But damn, do I love it, and that smell is like a siren’s chant to my nose.

I start to peel myself away, moving slow and careful, and although Snowball opens his eyes and glares at me, I think I’ve gotten away clean, until I’m creeping towards the door and I hear a sleepy “Jean?”

I turn around, and Marco’s looking at me with his left eye, the right one still closed. It’s a sleep-filled wink that I remember from the first time I slept on his couch, and my chest floods with warm nostalgia.

“Coffee,” I whisper, and he considers that a moment before nodding.

“I thought I dreamed it,” Marco says as he lays back down, the arm that had been around me coming up to cuddle Snowball. “I thought I’d wake up and you’d be gone.”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily.” I cross the room and give him a quick kiss, just to let him know how much I mean that, and he smiles at me before his eye falls closed and he starts snoring again.

The hallway is empty and silent as I emerge into it, and I shiver; it got colder during the night, and the house hasn’t warmed up yet. I stick my arm back into Marco’s room and feel around behind the door, until I find the robe I noticed hanging there yesterday. I pull it out and wrap myself up in it, holding it to my nose and breathing the faint ghosts of Marco’s scent that still linger in the fabric.

Thus equipped against the day, I pad downstairs.

Rosa is sitting at the kitchen table, sipping from a hand-shaped ceramic mug and watching snow fall out the window. I stop in the door, suddenly uncertain—does she want me to see her like this? Is she okay with her son’s new boyfriend barging in on her alone time? As I waffle back and forth, she looks up and sees me, and a smile spreads across her face.

“Hello, Jean dear. Would you like a coffee?”

Too late now. “Yes, please.” I come the rest of the way into the kitchen, and as she gets up to make me a coffee, she smirks and raises an eyebrow, and I realize I’m dressed completely in Marco’s clothes, head to toe.

Oh god. “It’s… it’s not what it looks like.” I pluck at the front of Marco’s robe. “We didn’t break any of your rules last night.”

She holds up a hand, silencing me. “It’s okay. The last rule is more for my younger children, and I know Marco wouldn’t break it anyway.” Her voice is impossibly fond as she pours me a steaming cup of coffee. “He’s a good boy.”

“Yeah.” I sit across from her, and accept the mug of liquid go-juice when she offers it to me. “He is.” _Such_ a good boy. Better than I deserve, I know that much.

We sit in companionable silence, sipping our coffee, and I feel life return to the withered husk of my body. And with life comes a creeping embarrassment, the thought that I somehow took over her family’s Thanksgiving and made it all about me.

“Rosa…” I start, and she looks at me with bright, youthful eyes, the same eyes she gave all her children. “I’m sorry about last night…”

“Sorry for what?” she interrupts, waving a hand at me like she’s shooing away flies. “Why are you apologizing?”

“Well, I…” I stumble over my words, not expecting this reaction. “I kind of… I kind of took over the holiday yesterday, and…”

“You did no such thing.” There’s no shut down like a motherly shut down, and I close my mouth. Rosa leans across the table and takes one of my hands in her own. “You are a guest in my house, invited here by my son, and you _did not_ ruin anything yesterday.” She looks out the window for a moment, and when she looks back at me, her eyes are damp and shining, but also crinkling at the corners as she smiles. “Do you know what you gave me yesterday?”

“Flowers?” They’re sitting in a vase on the counter, I can see them from here.

That makes her laugh. “Flowers, yes, and I can tell your mother raised you well, taught you manners. But you gave me something much better than flowers yesterday, Jean dear.” I must look as baffled as I feel, because she continues, explaining. “You gave me my son’s voice back.”

I tilt my head, still not understanding.

“Until last night, I had not heard Marco sing in years. Oh, Jean, you should have heard him when he was younger! He had a voice that would make the angels weep! But then he went to war, and he got hurt, and when he came home, he did not sing anymore.” She looks away again, but she isn’t ashamed of her tears, letting them fall freely down her cheeks. “And then came the dark times, which Marco tells me you know about,” she squeezes my hand, and I squeeze it back, “and then things got better, but Marco did not sing anymore.” She sighs, looking so sad that I almost get up to hug her. “Slowly, he started to smile again, and he got better, and found yoga, and his cats, but he was never the way he was before.” She turns to me now, and laughs through her tears. “But last night! Last night he sang the way he did before! He laughs, and smiles, and teases his brother and sister, and it is like it was before.” She gets up, and before I can do anything, I’m wrapped in a warm mom hug. “Thank you, Jean. Thank you for bringing my son home last night.”

There isn’t anything I can say to that, and I press my face into her shoulder, hugging her back, and our arms around each other say everything that words can’t express.

“Good morning.”

We look up, and Marco is standing in the doorway, Snowball cradled to his chest. He’s found another robe somewhere, and a pair of ridiculous slippers shaped like bear paws, and I can feel the way my face brightens the moment I see him. He’s managed to tame some of his bed head, and for the first time that I’ve seen, he’s wearing a patch over his right eye.

“Good morning, _tesoro_.” Rosa lets me go and goes over to give her son a hug, and I watch as they embrace, Marco shuffling Snowball to one side so he doesn’t get squished between them. Parvati doesn’t mind getting caught in the middle of a hug, but maybe Snowball is too old and decrepit to be up to that. Rosa lets him go and immediately starts rustling around at the kitchen counter. “I will make your tea.”

“Thanks, _Mama_.” Marco carefully puts Snowball down, then comes around to me. He doesn’t meet my eyes and keeps his head turned to one side, like he’s trying to hide the right side of his face, and I’m not having any of that.

“So I guess this means you’ve got dibs on being a pirate for Halloween, right? It’s cool, I prefer ninjas anyway.”

That gets his attention; his head shoots up and he stares at me in shock, and I’m afraid that I’ve overstepped my boundaries until he starts laughing. “Yeah, you can be a ninja.” He sits down next to me and takes my hand, curling both of his around it and playing with my fingers. “Sometimes the glass eye gets uncomfortable and I wear the patch instead.” He looks at me with that special blend of earnestness and shyness that only he can manage. “It doesn’t bother you, does it?”

“Of course not.” I reach up and touch his cheek, and see that the smears I noticed earlier are gone, with scars taking their place. Makeup. He’s been wearing makeup to hide the scars all this time. “It makes you look dashing. Dangerous, even.”

He rolls his good eye. “I don’t know about _that_ …”

“You could even be Nick Fury for Halloween. If you’re not sold on being a pirate.”

He brightens at that prospect. “Or Sagat, from Street Fighter.”

“Only if I get to be Guile.”

He pokes my side. “You’re going to need to go to the gym with Reiner if you want to be Guile.”

“I’ve got a year to work on it!”

Rosa chuckles from the counter, listening to us banter back and forth, and by the time Marco’s tea is ready, he’s half got me talked into being Ken for Halloween.

“And we could get Reiner to be Guile, and Bertolt could be… actually, Bertolt should be Sagat, he’s the tallest, and I could be Ryu!”

“I really don’t think you’re going to get Bertolt to run around shirtless all night.”

“Give it time, let me work my magic.”

“When are you going to teach us all the fire-breathing yoga move?”

“Jean!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rosa ships it.
> 
> Surprise early Sunday update! I'm working on the last chapter as we speak, and I'm going to try and have it published for you all sometime tomorrow.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end.

The snow doesn’t let up, and while the local plows are doing an admirable job, it looks like they’re starting to get overwhelmed. We’d originally intended to stay another day, but if we do, we run the risk of getting snowed in. I’m okay with that, mostly—Rosa makes one hell of a good meal, and Ilse and Isaac turn out to be great Mario Kart competitors—but around midday Marco starts worrying about Loaf.

“Mrs. Cooper is really good about looking after him, but I can’t ask her to keep giving him his insulin twice a day,” he frets, twisting his hands on his knees, having given up on playing Mario Kart with us. He might be a fierce Hyrulian warrior, but he doesn’t have the bloodlust necessary to be a true Mario Kart player. I’m out in front right now, but not by a lot, and I’m keeping a close eye on Ilse and that blue shell she’s holding onto and hoping I don’t notice.

“She doesn’t have to give him shots, right? Just squirt it into his mouth?” It’s hard to focus my attention on two things at once, especially when Marco has his foot wrapped around my ankle again and my knee is pressed into his muscular thigh, but I’m managing.

“Yeah, but it’s a lot to ask, getting her to come to my place twice a day. Aisha tries to jump on her, and she doesn’t like that.”

“Aisha tries to jump on a lot of people.” Isaac makes a sudden bid for the finish line, Ilse releases her blue shell, and I slam on the brakes and veer off to the side. Isaac zips ahead of me, the blue shell hits him, and I cackle all the way to first place.  
 Isaac throws down his controller in disgust while Ilse giggles and manages to snag third place. “I’m out.”

“Yeah, I think I’m done too.” I put the controller down and give Marco my full attention. “Do you want to head back early?”

“Would you mind?” 

Like I could ever say no… especially knowing that Rosa’s rules don’t apply back in Trost. At least, I hope they don’t. God, I hope they don’t. “It’s fine with me.”

“Thank you for understanding.” He says it like this is something I’ve been looking forward to for a long time, and leans in to steal a quick kiss before getting up and going off to find Rosa.

It takes about an hour for us to get on the road, between packing up our stuff, Rosa putting together a basket of food for us to take, and Isaac insisting on a Mario Kart rematch (where Ilse manages to beat both our asses, and soundly. Never challenge that girl on the Rainbow Road, she will _destroy_ you). By the time we’re heading out the door, the snow has stopped, but the whole world is half buried under white fluff, and I’m glad that Adelaide is a sure-footed old girl.

“Goodbye, darlings!” Rosa gives both of us a hug, as does Ilse. Isaac accepts a hug from Marco, and elects to fist-bump me. I’m okay with that, and we pile into the car. Marco turns around in the seat and waves until the house is lost behind us.

“Whew!” He turns around and flops in his seat. “I love them, but wow, they can take a lot out of me!”

I laugh. “They’re great.”

“Yeah, they are, but they’re a lot to handle.” He glances at me and grins. “They liked you.”

“Good. I liked them too.”

Marco directs me through Jinae, where the plows are fighting back and seem to be gaining ground against the snow, and once we’re on the highway, the road looks clear, all the way back to Trost.

Marco has his hands on his seatbelt, fiddling around with it. “Jean? You’re a confident driver, right? The wet roads aren’t bothering you?”

“Huh?” I frown at him and his odd question. “Yeah, I’m a good driver. Why?”

“So you won’t mind if I do this?” He unbuckles his belt and slides across Adelaide’s couch-like seat, nudging up under my arm and resting his head on my shoulder. I laugh, surprised, but then wrap my arm around him, liking the weight and sense of him being there. 

“I do not mind one bit.” In fact, I’m half tempted to pull over and grope him for awhile, like we’re a pair of dumb teenagers. Which is, honestly, what he makes me feel like.

“Good.” Marco drops his left hand down, starts running his fingertips up and down my thigh. “Because if the driving conditions weren’t treacherous, I’d make this a ride to remember.”

I have to bite back a moan, both because of the way he’s making little lightning bolts travel up and down my thigh and because of what I’m pretty sure he just implied. “They’re not… they’re not _that_ treacherous.”

He laughs, the sound like liquid honey to my ears. “Just drive, Jean.”

He stays exactly where he is for the rest of the ride home, brushing his lips against my neck and his hand against my thigh, and by the time I pull Adelaide into the yoga studio parking lot, I’m painfully hard and more geared up than I think I’ve ever been in my life.

“Why’re you stopping here?” Marco asks, the picture of innocence, like he hadn’t been loosely cupping his hand around my crotch and making approving noises two minutes ago.

“Loaf,” I answer, and I sound like I’m strangling. “Loaf’s insulin.”

Marco glances at the clock on Adelaide’s dashboard, and then his hand returns to my crotch, tracing the line of my dick through my jeans with talented fingers. The world around me grays out for a moment, lost in abject pleasure, and I push my hips forward, into his hand. Which only makes him pull it back, the goddamn cock tease. “Mmmm, Mrs. Cooper already gave him his last dose for the day. As long as we’re back here by tomorrow morning, he’ll be fine.”

“I thought… whole reason… back to Trost… Loaf’s medicine…” The part of my brain responsible for coherent sentences has gone on vacation, or isn’t getting enough blood flow diverted to it.

Marco chuckles musically. “Well, yeah, but I had other stuff in mind too.” He pulls away a little, enough for him to turn and look me in the eye. “I wasn’t kidding about making love to you, Jean. But…” His eye twinkles, sparking with a horrible, wonderful good humor. “I’m also not opposed to a little teaser beforehand.”

“Huh?” I have no idea what he’s talking about, not enough blood in big head.

“Do you have any condoms handy?”

 _That_ gets my attention, and I gesture feebly at the glove box. “In there.”

“A man who’s always prepared. I like that.” Marco moves back to his side of the seat, and I whine, already missing the heat of him beside me, reaching out for him across the seat. “Don’t worry, I’m coming right back,” he says, amused, as he digs through the glove box and comes up with a strip of three rubbers. He checks the expiration date on them—something I’ll find charming later but now just makes me squirm—before looking back at me. A slow, confident grin slides onto his face as he looks me up and down; I’m sure I look like a mess right now, rock hard in a pair of far-too-tight skinny jeans, panting and flushed, not far from getting down on my knees and begging for it. He stretches out across Adelaide’s seats, managing to make the move look slinky and seductive, but not before leaning forward and planting a quick kiss on my slack, partially open lips.

“Just relax,” he tells me, but it’s pretty damn hard to relax when he’s pulling the zipper of my jeans down with his teeth seconds later, and I grip the steering wheel and make a sound that can scarcely be described as human. My cock strains forward into the space made as Marco peels the zipper down, and I manage to pry one hand off the steering wheel and drop it down onto his head. He makes a purring sound in his throat, almost a growl but friendlier, and then… oh god, that’s his tongue, he runs his tongue up the length of me, and even through my underwear I feel like my entire groin has been lit ablaze.

“Marco…” I tighten my fingers in his hair and give it a gentle tug.

He lifts his head to look up at me, one hand rising to adjust his eye patch. “Am I going too fast?”

“No.” My voice is a whistle in my throat. “Just… didn’t want to poke you in the eye.” He only has one, after all.

Marco blinks, then bursts out laughing, resting his forehead on my thigh as his shoulders shake with it. That wasn’t exactly the reaction I thought I’d get, but after a moment, I see the humor in it too, and laugh with him, stroking my hand down the back of his neck. It even helps me calm down a little, so I don’t feel like I’m going to burst out of my skin and turn into a horndog demon any longer.

“Thank you, Jean,” Marco says politely when he gets control of himself and picks his head back up. He watches my face as he pushes my underwear down and pulls my cock out, and what he sees makes him smile. “Keep pulling my hair, please. I like it when you do that.”

“Uh… okay.” I move my hand back to his head and get a handful of thick, silky hair, giving it a few tentative tugs as he expertly rolls a condom down my length.

“Just like that,” he purrs, looking up at me one last time before lowering his head down over my crotch. “Just be careful of the patch strap.”

I start to answer, probably something like an apology for messing with the strap, but then he’s tonguing me again, running his tongue up the full length of my cock, and whatever words I might have been trying to form come out in a long stream of garbled mush. Marco has a talented tongue, in more ways than one, and I am putty under his mouth. Even without his instructions to do so, I’d probably be pulling his hair anyway, with the way he licks and laps at me, taking his time, exploring every inch of my length first and then nuzzling down where my cock meets my body, nipping playfully at the skin there. I wish my balls weren’t still in my underwear, but if he went after those, I’d probably spray before he could ever get his entire mouth around me.

“Marco…” I murmur, and he makes that purring sound in response, like he knows I’m not really trying to get his attention. His name rolls off my tongue, fitting in my mouth in a way no other name has fit before, and when he finally takes me into his mouth, when he finally bobs down low over me and I’m surrounded by the heat of his mouth, I cry it like an appeal to the heavens.

“Marco!”

He mutters something, something that might have been the word _Jean_ if his mouth wasn’t full of cock, and then he pulls me all the way in. I feel the head of my cock bump the back of his throat, and then he swallows around me. I see stars. I see entire goddamn universes, and I’d be amazed if I didn’t yank out an entire handful of black hair with the way I reef on it. I curl low over my lap, over his head, and hit the steering wheel with my head, making the horn beep. I sit back up in a hurry, and I can feel Marco laughing around me, the vibrations running up his throat and into my cock.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, smart guy,” I tell him, and tug on his hair. His laughter turns into purring again, and he starts bobbing his head up and down, his tongue flat against the underside of my cock. He does this swirling thing with his tongue when he gets to the top, wrapping it around the head before moving back down, and I can already feel tightness building in my groin. I’d been going through a dry spell when we first met, and hadn’t touched anyone after we got to know each other (hadn’t even wanted to), and now everything feels taunt and close to the surface, aching and ready to burst free. 

“Marco, I…” I should be embarrassed, that I’m this wound up and ready to blow so quickly—I’ve pointedly not looked at the clock on the dashboard, knowing I’m not at my best with endurance right now—but I find that I’m not. This has been months in coming, and it’s only the first of what I hope will be many. “Marco, I’m…”

He nods a little, turning his head so he can look up at me with his one eye, and pointedly swallows around me. That’s it, I’m done; my hand clenches in his hair as I buck forward, burying myself in his mouth, and I screw my eyes shut as I explode. I’m going to be amazed if I don’t rip the condom clean off with the force of my orgasm.

Marco doesn’t gag, even as I’m shoving myself deep in his mouth. He works his lips and tongue around me, easing me through it, caressing the underside of my cock with his tongue as the last little aftershocks pump through me. When I’m done and a useless, boneless blob sprawled on the seat, he lifts his head slowly and peels the condom off, tying off the end and dropping it in the plastic bag hanging from the cigarette lighter. I catch a glimpse of it before it disappears, and I _filled_ that sucker.

Then Marco is cuddled against my side again, and I wrap my arm around him. He waits as I get my breathing back under control, as I come back into my self, and when my heart has stopped pounding and I’m feeling almost normal again, he stretches up for a kiss. “Did you enjoy that?” he asks brightly, and I groan, making him laugh.

“Holy _shit_.”

“Okay, so you did.” He tucks his head into my shoulder and skillfully tucks me back into my pants. He doesn’t bother trying to zip my jeans up again, and that’s probably just as well. Skinny jean zippers are treacherous under the best of circumstances. “Can we go back to your place now?”

“You don’t want to see the cats?”

“I do, but,” he turns to look up at me again, and I’m starting to recognize that sparkle in his eye, “I also don’t want to be interrupted.”

That’s all the convincing I need. I take Adelaide out of park, and steer her out of the parking lot and towards home.

~*~

My apartment is dusty and quiet, and when I unlock the door to let us in, I find myself looking for Parvati, expecting her to come charging into the hallway, meowing loudly and telling us all about her day. But Parvati is at Marco’s house, of course, and the apartment feels like a tomb.

Marco fixes that immediately; he strides into the living room and throws back the curtains, hauling them all the way back so we can see the city of Trost stretched out below us, buried under a blanket of snow. The snow in the streets has already turned mucky and grey, but on top of the buildings it’s still white and pristine, and I come up behind Marco and put my arms around his waist. “You’re a great cocksucker.”

“Thank you.” He takes it as a compliment, which is how I meant it, and turns his head so he can see me. “I’m pretty good at other stuff, too.”

“I bet you are.” I hide my face in the side of his neck, breathing in his scent, a combination of green tea, soap, and incense.

Marco makes a humming sound of agreement, and links his arms over mine, standing and swaying with me in front of the window, like we’re dancing to music only we can hear. We stand that way for awhile, quiet, not needing to fill the space between us with sound, until Marco clears his throat. “So, since we’re together now, we should probably have this talk… what kind of things do you like?”

“Hmmm?” I know exactly what he means, but play dumb to buy myself some time. Fuck, I thought I could avoid this conversation for a little while longer!

“Well, like you saw earlier, I like giving blowjobs. I like receiving them too.” God help me, he’s so matter-of-fact and calm about this! I’m shaking in my boots, and he’s discussing it like it’s no big thing. “I can top or bottom, it doesn’t matter. If I had to state a preference, I’d say it’s probably for bottoming, but it’s like fifty-five, forty-five, not a huge difference.” He chuckles a little. “And you can probably guess that I’m kind of a power bottom.” He shrugs. “Can’t help it, I like being in control. Oh, and you can yank on my hair all you want, I like that.”

I wait, but it sounds like he’s done. He’s done, and waiting for me to tell him my preferences, like it’s such an easy thing to do. I take a deep breath, and keep my face hidden in his neck.

“I like handjobs, and blowjobs. Giving and receiving, I’ve done both. I love it when you play with my hair, and wish you’d do it all the time.” Marco nods, and waits. I don’t say anything else, and the silence stretches long enough that it starts to feel uncomfortable.

“Anything else?” he finally asks, his voice coaxing, and I shake my head. I wish I could leave it there, but dammit, he deserves an explanation, and if this is going to happen, if this is going to work—and god, do I want it to work—I need to be honest with him.

“You know I’m bi, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“So… I’ve had sex with a woman before, but…” I trail off. Marco’s smart, though, he picks up on what I’m not saying.

“But not with a man?” His voice is impossibly gentle, impossibly understanding, and I nod my head, tightening my arms around his waist and waiting for whatever comes next.

Marco considers things for a moment, then shifts, turning in my arms so he’s facing me, and taking my face into his hands. I don’t want to open my eyes at first, and he responds to that by kissing me, slow and sweet, easing my lips apart with his tongue until I let him in, then tasting me, sampling me like I’m some fine wine. “So what I’m hearing,” he says when the kiss breaks off and I’m left breathless, “is that you’re all mine, and that I get the privilege and honor of showing you how it all comes together?”

I nod, and Marco brushes the traitorous tears that spring up in my eyes away with the pads of his thumbs. “You’re not mad?” I ask, when I think I can without my voice cracking.

He shakes his head. “Of course not.” He breaks out into an impish smile. “I’m surprised, to hear you talk and to hear Hitch talk about you, but really? This is kind of great.”

I roll my eyes; fucking Hitch. “It is?”

“Yep.” He leans in and bites at my lower lip, pulling it out and sucking on it for a moment before releasing. “I can ask you to call me _sensei_ now and you can’t say anything about it.”

“Marco!” I swat at him, and he laughs, backing away. I keep up my attack until the back of his legs hit the couch, and we fall onto it together, laughing and wrestling, playing like a pair of kittens until I manage to catch both of his wrists and hold them back, over his head.

He lifts an eyebrow at that, going still underneath me. “I like it when you do that, too.”

“You do?” He’s letting me hold him back, I know that for sure; there’s no way I could hold him down if he didn’t want to be held down.

“Yes.” Marco pulls his legs apart, and I fall between them, fitting against him like a piece of a puzzle that no one has ever solved before. He wraps his legs around my waist, pulling me flush against him, and I gasp. It’s only been about forty-five minutes since my blowjob, but I can already feel myself coming back to life, ready for round two. “You’ll tell me if I’m going too fast, right?”

I nod. “It, uh… it might be awhile? Before I can, you know… bottom?” I can feel Marco’s erection through our pants, and that is one monster dick he’s sporting down there.

He nods, then shrugs, arching his back and pulling me closer with his legs. “Oh no, I’m going to have to bottom, which I prefer most of the time anyway, what trials and tribulations you put me through, Jean Kirschstein.”

“None of that sass now, Marco Bott.” I bend down to kiss him, he stretches up to meet me, and this feels… familiar. For a moment, I have an uncanny flash of deja vu, like this is something that’s happened before, and something that will happen again. Marco’s talked a little bit about reincarnation before, and living different lives, and I know, with a certainty that I’ll never be able to explain, that this is how things are supposed to be. This is how they were meant to be, across all the universes and all the lifetimes; Marco and I are intended to be together. We were made to be together, designed to fit into each other’s lives like puzzle pieces, designed to be good on our own, but better together.

Marco noses at my cheek, making no attempt to get his hands free. “Are you crying again?”

“Shut up, I’m not crying, you’re crying.” That makes him laugh, and he kisses my tears away, his lips butterfly soft on my cheeks, and the feeling of rightness, the feeling of belonging, only grows stronger.

“I love you,” I blurt out, and it’s too soon, we’re going too fast, but Marco just nods.

“I love you too, Jean,” he says, and an entire world of possibilities opens up before us, a thousand paths into the future, just waiting for us to walk down them, together. I bend low over him, letting go of his wrists so I can bury my hands in his hair, and behind us, the sun starts to set over Trost, painting the entire city in shades of silver and gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so here we are.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's joined me on this journey. I never thought, when I started Namaste last September, that it was grow into the monster it's become, but I'm so glad that it did. It never would have gotten this big without all of you, the readers. Thank you for all your comments and encouragement along the way, thank you for your kudos, thank you for sticking it out in the slowest slow burn I've ever written. I hope you like the way it all came together in the end.
> 
> I'm going to be taking a break for a few weeks before starting Namaste's sequel. I have a few other things I want to get done first, including things from my long-neglected ABO universe and other random porn (Namaste managed to get to 124,000 words and only included two blowjobs? weeeeeeak), and maybe a Namaste one-shot. Keep an eye on my account here for various updates, which will be, whatever universe they're in, on Mondays. :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Relax](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9036041) by [identitypollution](https://archiveofourown.org/users/identitypollution/pseuds/identitypollution)




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